“And I never will tell it to any one unless you ask me to.”
“I don’t care if you tell it,” she said with weak indifference.
It was the first gleam of her old self. Whatever she had wanted to say to me it was not that. Other women—the women of my world—would have been fearful of their secret lightly guarded. I don’t believe she had given it a thought. Either her trust in me was implicit or she didn’t care who knew it. I like to think it was the first.
She settled back against the pillow and made feeble smoothings of the sheet. Still persuaded of her inward disquiet I sat silent waiting for her to speak. After a moment or two she did.
“Have any letters come for me?”
I knew this was the question. I got up and gave her the pile of letters stacked on the desk. She looked over the addresses, then pushed them back to me.
“I was afraid he might write to me,” she said. “But it’s all right, he hasn’t.”
I got a shock of displeased surprise.
“You didn’t expect him to write to you, Lizzie?”
“He might have.”