She writhed, hiding her face.
John watched her, a perception of something wrong creeping into his reluctant mind. Then he was conscience-stricken; what right had he to thrust himself into her confidence? Yet passion, denied and betrayed, tore his heart.
"Forgive me, I had no right to ask you, but somehow I couldn't help it; I felt as if I must know! There are little moments in those old days that are dear to me. Rachel, you understand? I wanted to feel that they were mine still; I didn't want to be robbed of them, I—"
"They're all yours," she said, controlling herself, "all yours, John."
"Rachel, did—did you love me a little then? I wasn't altogether a fool—you did?"
"Oh, God!" she moaned softly, wringing her hands.
"I can't understand!" he broke out fiercely; "this is fearful!"
"Don't try to understand—" She was walking on again blindly, trying to recover herself, her face bloodless, the muscles drawn about the eyes and mouth.
"I'm a brute," said John bitterly. "I'm hurting you!"
"It kills me to hurt you!" she cried.