“Cynthia Lennox, I don't believe you care in the least for this young devotee of yours, for all you are heaping benefits upon her,” Risley said, looking at her quizzically.
“I am not sure that I do,” replied Cynthia, calmly.
“Then why on earth—?”
Suddenly Cynthia began speaking rapidly and passionately, straightening herself in her chair. “Oh, Lyman, do you think I could do a thing like that, and not repent it and suffer remorse for it all these years?” she cried.
“A thing like that?”
“Like stealing that child,” Cynthia replied, in a whisper.
“Stealing the child? You did not steal the child.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why, it was only a few hours that you kept her.”
“What difference does it make whether you steal anything for a few hours or a lifetime? I kept her, and she was crying for her mother, and her mother was suffering tortures all that time. Then I kept it secret all these years. You didn't know what I have suffered, Lyman.”