“The woman is mad,” said Richard Linnell, with a pitying look, and he made a movement as if to leave, but she caught his hand.
“Pray—pray stay,” she whispered, “and let me—let me speak.”
“Well, speak,” he said, in a low, angry voice, “but be careful of what you say.”
“It is for your sake,” she whispered. “You do not know what I do. It is my lot to hear and see so much. I only want to take the veil from before your eyes.”
“If it is to blacken some one whom I respect—”
“Whom you love, boy, with a foolish, insensate love. It is to save you from misery that I speak.”
“To tell me some vile scandal that I will not hear,” he cried.
“That you shall hear, if I die for telling you, boy,” she cried, catching his wrist with both her hands. “Strike me if you like. Crush me if you will, but you shall hear the truth.”
“The truth—what truth, woman?” cried Richard indignantly.
“The truth about—”