“Paulie,” she said—“Paulie, there is no good going on like this. You have got to explain. You have got to get a load off your mind. You have got to do it whether you like it or not. How did you come by this? How—did—you—come—by—this?”
As Verena spoke she held in her open palm the long-lost thimble. Poor Pauline had not the most remote idea that the thimble was still in the pocket of the blue serge dress. She had, indeed, since the day of her accident, forgotten its existence.
“Where did you get it?” she asked, her face very white, her eyes very startled.
“In the pocket of the dress you wore on the day you were nearly drowned in the White Bay.”
“I told you not to mention that day,” said Pauline. Her whole face changed. “I remember,” she said slowly, but she checked herself. The words reached her lips, but did not go beyond them. “Put it down, Verena,” she said. “Put it there on the mantelpiece.”
“Then you won’t tell me how you got it? It is not yours. You know it belongs to Aunt Sophy.”
“And it is not yours, Renny, and you have no right to interfere. And what is more, I desire you not to interfere. I don’t love anybody very much now, but I shall hate you if you interfere in this matter.”
Verena laid the thimble on the mantelpiece.
“You can leave me, Renny. I am a very bad girl; I don’t pretend I am anything else, but I won’t talk to you now.”
“Oh!” said poor Verena. “Oh!”