"I would like to go there if it is the place you come from."
Geraldine was gazing at me now intensely—I know no other word—with eyes that seemed appealing to me to say something; never had I been gazed at so before.
I could only falter out, "Why?"
"Because," said Geraldine, "I think I know where you come from, I think I have seen you there, but it was in a dream, and we were not dressed as we are, but I am not sure. Who are you?"
I have never heard anything so soft and yet so full of a kind of fire as those words.
"Has not your father told you, Geraldine?"
"No—he said a lady was coming to see me, but that was all."
"I am Beatrice Sinclair, Geraldine."
"But that is only a name."
A thought shot like a horrible zig-zag firework through my brain; it was, "Geraldine, I was once your murderer."