‘Have you read the letter?’ he inquired hoarsely.
‘I know what you are come for. You are come for this letter.’
‘No; how could I?’
The colour rushed back to his cheeks, and into his eyes there came a gleam of hope.
‘No,’ she went on, ‘it is you who shall read it to me. If you decline to do so, I shall conclude that this vile creature has written you what is not fit for anyone, save women like herself, to hear, and your refusal will be the last words that you will ever address to me with my consent, so help me Heaven.’
Mrs. Powell herself, when personating some heroine of the stage, never looked or spoke with greater earnestness of purpose than on this occasion did simple Margaret Slade out of the simplicity of her nature.
‘I will read you the letter, Margaret,’ was William Henry’s quiet reply.