She took it wonderingly and read it. Her hand dropped to her side. Her head drooped into the same position he had found her in. In a moment he was kneeling at her side:
"What is it, dear?"
"We can't go, Frank."
"We can't go? What are ye sayin', dear?"
"We can't go," she repeated, her body crumpled up limply in the chair.
"And why not, Angela? I know I can't take ye back as I brought ye here, dear, if that's what ye mane. The luck's been against me. It's been cruel hard against me. An' that thought is tearin' at me heart this minnit."
"It isn't THAT, Frank," she said, faintly.
"Then what is it?"
"Oh," she cried, "I hoped it would be so different—so very different."
"What did ye think would be so different, dear? Our going back? Is that what's throublin' ye?"