"You must find out whether she does or not."
"Do you think she does?"
"I refuse to think about it at all."
"You mean she isn't worth troubling about? Tell the truth, and be hanged to you! Is she the kind of a girl a man may marry?"
"For all I know."
"Do you suspect her?" Narramore urged fiercely.
"She'll marry a rich man rather than a poor one—that's the worst I think of her."
"What woman won't?"
When question and answer had revolved about this point for another quarter of an hour, Hilliard brought the dialogue to an end. He was clay-colour, and perspiration stood on his forehead.
"You must make her out without any more help from me. I tell you the letter is all nonsense, and I can say no more."