I could just make out her swimming eyes as they stared at me through the remaining veil, which was as black and thick as a widow's.
"What do you mean?"
"Wouldn't that depend on what you mean?"
"If you think you're going to stop me—"
"Dear Mrs. Brokenshire, I don't think anything at all. How can I? We're both going to Boston. By a singular set of circumstances we're seated side by side on the same train. What can I see more in the situation than that?"
"You do see more."
"But I'm trying not to. If you insist on betraying more, when perhaps I'd rather you wouldn't, well, that won't be my fault, will it?"
"Because I've given you my confidence once or twice isn't a reason why you should take liberties all the rest of your life."
To this, for a minute, I made no reply.
"That hurts me," I said at last, "but I believe that when you've considered it you'll see that you've been unjust to me."