It was a tall, slender figure
clothed in a white garment. The face was young and beautiful. Buckley
closed his eyes. But it came nearer and nearer. He stood up perfectly
rigid in the darkness as two soft arms reached up and met about his
neck.
Buckley did not budge and the soft voice began, "You have not forgiven
me yet." It began to sob. "You know I did not mean it. Won't you forgive
me? Tell me you do forgive me. Say it with your own lips, Guy dear.
Speak to me, my husband!" Buckley didn't. A soft, fragrant hand came up
along his cheek, which tingled, and over his eyes, which quivered. For
fully a half minute he tried to think what to do, then he gritted his
teeth and placed one arm about her waist and threw the other around her
neck in such a way that he could draw it tight if necessary. Suddenly
she raised her head, gave one startled look into his face, and with a
shuddering gasp, she recoiled.
"For Heaven's sake, don't scream--I can explain!"
"Ugh, oh, let go! Who--let me go, or I'll screa-ch-ch-ch!"
Buckley pressed on the windpipe, feeling like three or four murderers as
he did so.
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