He stopped short and his expression set her bosom to heaving. But her gaze was steady upon his. "Why did you tell me!" he cried. "Oh, it isn't so—it can't be. You don't mean exactly that."
"Yes, I do," said she.
"Don't tell me! I don't want to know." And he strode on, she keeping beside him.
"I can't let you believe me different from what I am," replied she. "Not you. I supposed you guessed."
"Now I'll always think of it—whenever I look at you. . . . I simply can't believe it. . . . You spoke of it as if you weren't ashamed."
"I'm not ashamed," she said. "Not before you. There isn't anything I've done that I wouldn't be willing to have you know. I'd have told you, except that I didn't want to recall it. You know that nobody can live without getting dirty. The thing is to want to be clean—and to try to get clean afterward—isn't it?"
"Yes," he admitted, as if he had not been hearing. "I wish you hadn't told me. I'll always see it and feel it when I look at you."
"I want you to," said she. "I couldn't love you as I do if I hadn't gone through a great deal."
"But it must have left its stains upon you," said he. Again he stopped short in the street, faced her at the curb, with the crowd hurrying by and jostling them. "Tell me about it!" he commanded.
She shook her head. "I couldn't." To have told would have been like tearing open closed and healed wounds. Also it would have seemed whining—and she had utter contempt for whining. "I'll answer any question, but I can't just go on and tell."