“You must pay!” she said hoarsely1.
But the man did not stir.
The woman lifted her eyes and looked at Achilles. There was no recognition in the glance—only a kind of impatience2 that he was there. The Greek moved toward the door—but the great man stayed him. “Don’t go,” he said. He reached up a hand to his wife, laying it on her shoulder. “We can’t pay, dearest,” he said slowly.
Her open lips regarded him and the quick tears were in her eyes. She brushed them back, and looked at him—“Let me pay!” she said fiercely, “I will give up—everything—and pay!” She had crouched3 to him, her groping fingers on his arm.
Above her head the glances of the two men met.
Her husband bent4 to her, speaking very slowly... to a child.
“Listen, Louie—they might give her back to-day—if we paid... but they would take her again—to-morrow—next week—next year. We shall never be safe if we pay. Nobody will be safe—”
Her face was on his arm, sobbing5 close. “I hate—it!” she said brokenly, “I hate—your—money! I want Betty!” The cry went through the room—and the man was on his feet, looking down at her—
“Don’t, Louie,” he said—“don’t, dear—I can’t bear that! See, dear—sit down!” He had placed her in the chair and was crooning to her, bending to her. “We shall have her back—soon—now.”
The telephone was whirring and he sprang to it.
The woman lifted her face, staring at it.
The Greek’s deep eyes fixed6 themselves on it.
The room was so still they could hear the tiny, ironic
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