“I will go upstairs.”
“No;” and Daisie’s outstretched white hand motioned her to a seat, as she added: “You know so much of my story, Annette, that I want you to hear the rest.”
These three, who knew in their secret hearts how cruelly Daisie had been wronged, and how much they were responsible, waited in the greatest wonder and fear to hear what she might say.
They were prepared for something startling from the awful pallor of her lovely face and the tragic ring of her sweet voice.
She stood up, with her arms folded on the back of her chair, the long train of her blue silk gown trailing behind her on the floor, the rich color bringing out the waving gold of her hair and the lily white of her face—stood up and said to them in clear, unfaltering tones:
“I thought it as well, Royall, to tell you and your cousin that it will not be necessary for you to pay Letty and her husband any greater price for my misery. I know it all.”
“All!” muttered Royall hollowly.
“All!” echoed Lutie, in a sickly tone of dismay.
“All!” murmured Annette, in surprise and grief.
And, with an almost tragic sweep of her white hand, Daisie repeated bitterly: