"So it's true," he said, but his voice sounded strange and harsh.
A deep silence fell between them, and in its strained quiet she could hear her heart beating loudly in her bosom, as if it were the pendulum of some muffled clock ticking off the dreary moments of a life.
"Yes," she answered, finally breaking the intense silence, her voice scarcely more than a faint whisper. It seemed that an age had passed since the question was asked.
"Sally!" he cried sharply, as if her reply had been a keen knife thrust. "You don't mean it!"
"It is true," she said, simply.
"And I would not believe it, even though I read it by chance in one of the papers from here. I said it was a lie. I really thought it was one—a wicked lie—a damnable one—I didn't know women," he added, with a bitter laugh.
"Don't blame me, Milt," she faltered. "I did it for the best."
"For the best?" he echoed, scornfully, swift anger following close upon his words. "Is it for the best to wreck my life—my faith in you?"
"It need not wreck your life, it must not," answered Sally, earnestly. "I'm not worth it. Oh! why did you come back?" she asked sorrowfully.