“I don’t know,” said Camelia feebly.
“You don’t know?” he repeated.
“No—I thought Mary would not mind. I thought she would like to go.”
“And you left me intending to ask her?”
“Yes.”
“Telling me you were going to hurry her?”
“Yes.”
“Pretending to her that you did not know I had come for her?”
“Yes.” There was an impulse struggling in Camelia’s heart—frightening her—but worse than fright, the thought of not freeing it. “One ray of sincerity.” Mary had been noble enough not to tell him—she must be noble enough to tell.
“More than that—” she added, feeling her very breath leave her.