"You poor child—you don't need to tell me that—I never would have believed it of you for a single instant." Then she added, in the strained voice which she could not help using on the very rare occasions when she forced herself to speak of something that had occurred during her marriage, but still as if she felt that no word which might give comfort should be left unsaid, "Perhaps your mother has told you that the little baby who died when it was two weeks old wasn't the first that I—expected. A fall or—or a blow—or any shock of—fear or grief—often ends—in a disaster like this."
"Will the others believe me, too?"
"Of course they will. Don't talk, dear, it's going to be all right."
"I must talk. I've got to tell—I've got to tell you. And you can explain—to the family. You always understand everything—and you never blame anybody. I often wonder why it is—you're so good yourself—and yet you never say a word against any living creature, or let anybody else do it when you're around; but lots of girls, who've—done just what I have—and didn't happen to get found out—are the ones who speak most bitterly and cruelly—I know two or three who will be just glad if they know—"
"They're not going to know."
"Then you will listen, and—and believe me—and help?"
"Yes, Edith."
"I thought it happened only in books, or when girls had no one to take care of them—not to girls with fathers and mothers and good homes—didn't you, Sylvia?"
"No, dear. I knew it happened sometimes—oh, more often than sometimes—to girls—just like you."
"And what happens afterwards?"