"That what?"
"That I cannot allow this book to be published," said Mr. Gresley, in a low voice. He hardly ever lowered his voice.
There was a moment's pause. Hester felt the situation was serious. How not to wound him, yet not to yield?
"I am eight-and-twenty," she said. "I am afraid I must follow my own judgment. You have no responsibility in the matter. If I am blamed," she smiled proudly—at that instant she knew all that her book was worth—"the blame will not attach to you. And, after all, Minna and the Pratts and the Thursbys need not read it."
"No one will read it," said Mr. Gresley. "It was a profane, wicked book. No one will read it."
"I am not so sure of that," said Hester.
The brother and sister looked at each other with eyes of flint.
"No one will read it," repeated Mr. Gresley—he was courageous, but all his courage was only just enough—"because, for your own sake, and for the sake of the innocent minds which might be perverted by it, I have—I have—burned it."
Hester stood motionless, like one struck by lightning, livid, dead already—all but the eyes.
"You dared not," said the dead lips. The terrible eyes were fixed on him. They burned into him.