She had "touched" Martin again, and with that "touch" she was safe.
It did not matter how he treated her nor whether he wanted her. She
was sane and happy and whole again as she had not been since he left
her.
Meanwhile he looked at her across the dark room, frowning.
"Who is it?" he asked. "What do you want?"
The sound of his voice moved her passionately. For how long she had
ached and yearned for it! He spoke more huskily, with a thicker tone
than he had done, but it was the same voice, rough a little and
slow.
"Don't you know me, Martin?" she said, laughing for sheer happiness.
She saw before she spoke that he had recognised her. He said
nothing, staring at her across the table; and she, held by some safe
instinct, did not move from where she was.
At last he said:
"Well . . . What do you want?"
"Oh, Martin, don't you recognise me? I'm Maggie."
He nodded. "Yes, I know. You mustn't come here, though. We've
nothing to say to one another nowadays--no, nothing." He didn't look
at her; his eyes were turned towards the grimy window.
She had an astonishing sense of her possession of him.
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