“Why—what you know.”
She looked up at him, surprised, and saw that a faint veil had fallen over the light in his eyes. His face had grown pale and she felt that he was holding her hands without knowing that he held them.
“I know you’ve been most unhappy ... most cruelly treated....” He straightened his shoulders and looked at her. “That there’ve been things in the past that you regret ... must regret....” He paused, as if waiting for her to speak; then, with a visible effort, went on: “In all those lonely years—when you were so friendless—I’ve naturally supposed you were not always ... alone....”
She freed herself gently and moved away from him.
“Is that all?”
She was conscious in him of a slowly dawning surprise. “All—what else is there?”
“What else? The shame ... the misery ... the truth....”
For a moment he seemed hardly to take in the words she was flinging at him. He looked like a man who has not yet felt the pain of the wound he has received.
“I certainly don’t know—of any shame,” he answered slowly.
“Then you don’t know anything. You don’t know any more than the others.” She had almost laughed out as she said it.