“Is this story true?” he repeated, his face drawn with anger.
She continued to approach him, her arms held out in piteous appeal. “Donald—what do you want me to say?”
Donald’s expression turned to one of bitter anguish. The denial he had half-hoped for, in spite of Hall’s story, was not forthcoming. In every word, in every gesture, his wife showed her guilt.
“My God, I can’t believe it!” he groaned. “Why did you do this thing?”
“Don’t ask me any more—don’t! Can’t you see it’s all past and gone?”
“No! It has only just begun. Were you in love with him? Don’t lie to me!”
“Donald—I—I—really wasn’t. I—” Her voice choked with sobs; she was unable to meet his searching gaze.
“I don’t believe you.”
She came near to him, her look, her manner, her every movement an appeal for forgiveness. “Donald!” she cried. “I—I—only thought I was. It wasn’t true. I never loved anyone but you—don’t you see that I am telling you the truth?”