Janey shook as in an ague.
She saw suddenly in front of her a gulf of infamy unspeakable, ready to swallow her if she agreed with him—she who always agreed with him. He would implicitly believe her. The little gleam of hope which had fallen on her aching, mutilated life went out. She was alone in the dark. For a moment she could neither see nor hear.
"If Annette says she is innocent, it's true," she said hoarsely, putting her hand to her throat.
The room and the lamp became visible again, and Roger's eyes fixed on her, like the eyes of a drowning man, wide, dilated, seen through deep water.
"If Annette says so, it's true," she repeated. "She may have done wrong. She says she has. But she does not tell lies. You know that."
"She says Dick did not try to entrap her, that she went with him of her own accord."
"But don't you see that Dick did take advantage of her, all the same, a mean advantage, when she was stunned by despair? I don't suppose you have ever known what it is to feel despair, Roger. But I know what it is. I know what Annette felt when her lover failed her."
"She told me she meant to drown herself. She said she did not care what became of her."
"You don't know what it means to feel like that."