“Did I go off with Mr. Bixby, you mean,” Julie answered steadily. “Yes, I did. We’ve been together in Richmond for the last two months.”
The other woman’s mouth dropped open. “An’ you dare to come back here to Hart’s Run an’ tell a tale like that?” she cried furiously.
“I don’t dare not to. I want folks to know the truth.”
“You want ’em to know?”
“Yes, I want to stand straight with the world.”
“You want ’em to know?” the other reiterated violently. “Well, upon my soul! I don’t believe you’ve got one shred of decency left.”
She glared at Julie, who made no retort but went on gently stroking the kitten, which was curled on her knee, comforted now, and blowing an occasional silver bubble as it purred.
“Quit foolin’ with that nasty little cat, an’ listen to me!” Mrs. Anderson stormed. “What I want to know is how you ever come to do such a thing—raised like you’ve been?”
Julie looked at her out of still eyes. How had she come to do it? How could she ever explain to Mrs. Anderson how it had happened? How could she explain the long repression of soul that had led her and Timothy Bixby to blow the lid off so violently at last? There were too many fine shades of meaning in it for her ever to make the other understand. In truth, she could hardly understand it herself. What had happened was down so deep in the elemental things of life that she could not put it into words.
“I don’t think I could possibly tell you why we did it,” she answered at length. “We cared for each other, but—but we parted as soon as we saw it was wrong—that what we did was hurting other folks.”