Repeating the languid words bitterly, Rose continued:
“What is it to love without having faith in him you love? You make my mind easier.”
Juliana caught the implied taunt, and said, fretfully:
“I’m ill. You’re so passionate. You don’t tell me what it is. How can I answer you?”
“Never mind,” said Rose, moving to the door, wondering why she had spoken at all: but when Juliana sprang forward, and caught her by the dress to stop her, and with a most unwonted outburst of affection, begged of her to tell her all, the wound in Rose’s breast began to bleed, and she was glad to speak.
“Juley, do you—can you believe that he wrote that letter which poor Ferdinand was—accused of writing?”
Juliana appeared to muse, and then responded: “Why should he do such a thing?”
“O my goodness, what a girl!” Rose interjected.
“Well, then, to please you, Rose, of course I think he is too honourable.”
“You do think so, Juley? But if he himself confessed it—what then? You would not believe him, would you?”