"How can that make any difference, dearest?"
"I mean about me--my life, my past."
He disengaged himself with a slight jerk and sat down opposite her. The inquiring look of consternation, which stiffened his pale face like a mask, filled her with a fresh fear. This time it was not fear of him, but fear for him. She was afraid of causing him pain, making her own suffering his.
"I was going to write to you everything exactly as it happened, but somehow it wouldn't come. As I wrote, it got all wrong. So instead I came, came to you in the middle of the night. If you like, I will tell you ... all ... now."
She could not go on, and buried her face on the edge of the writing-table.
"Why don't you speak, then?"
He had quite forgotten his strict injunctions about keeping quiet. Both started at the sudden sound of his voice.
"She is probably asleep," he said, again lowering his tone. "So speak out at last. What can it be that you have to say?"
His breath came heavily, under the weight of anxiety that oppressed him.
And she began. Bending towards him, she tried to relate in a whisper the history for which she had not been able to find words at home.