Again the cold shiver ran under her hair, and she could not speak
again for a few moments.
"Does he know what I am going to do to-day?" she asked at last, in a
very low voice.
"I will ask him."
The silence which followed was the longest of all that there had been.
"I cannot see him any more," said the voice, speaking more faintly. "He
is gone. He will communicate with you again. I cannot find him. Giuditta
is tired--she will--" The last words were hardly audible, and the voice
died away altogether.
In the dark, Matilde heard something like a yawn, as of a person waking
from sleep. Then Giuditta's croaking voice spoke to her.
"I am tired," she said. "The spirits have kept me a long time. Did you
hear anything that you wished to hear?"
"Yes. I heard much."
While Matilde was speaking, the woman drew the curtain back, and the
dull steel light of the gloomy day filled the small room. But after the
darkness it was almost dazzling. Matilde looked at Giuditta's face, and
saw the same staring, china eyes, and the same listless expression in
the unhealthy features. She had felt a sensation of relief when the
voice had been unable to answer the last question she had asked; for she
still thought that there might be a doubt as to Giuditta's total
forgetfulness on waking. But that doubt was greatly diminished by the
woman's indifferent and weary look.
"I hope that he will not torment me so much after this," said Giuditta.
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