"Why did she write to me?" she whispered.
"Nay, love, I don't know."
"But I know. Simon, she loves you."
"It would afford no reason if she did. And I think——"
"It would and she does. Simon, of course she does."
"I think rather that she was sorry for——"
"Not for me!" cried Barbara with great vehemence. "I will not have her sorry for me!"
"For you!" I exclaimed in ridicule. (It does not matter what I had been about to say before.) "For you! How should she? She wouldn't dare!"
"No," said Barbara. One syllable can hold a world of meaning.
"A thousand times, no!" cried I.