I do not answer.
"Nancy," he says again, in a voice of most thorough earnestness, "I have a favor to ask of you—I know when I put it that way, that you will not say 'No;' if you do not mind, I had rather you did not abuse Zéphine Huntley!—for the matter of that, I had rather you did not abuse any one—it does not pay, and there is no great fun in it; but Zéphine specially not."
"Why specially?" cry I, breathing short and speaking again with a quick, raised voice. "I know that it is a bad plan abusing people, you need not tell me that, I know it as well as you do, and I never did it at home, before I married, never!—none of them ever accused me of it—I was always quite good-natured about people, quite; but why she specially? why is she to be more sacred than any one else?"
"It is an old story," he answers, passing his hand across his forehead with what looks to me like a rather weary gesture and sighing, "I do not know why I did not tell you before—did not I ever?—no, by-the-by, I remember I never did; well, I will tell you now, and then you will understand!"
"Do not!" cry I, passionately, putting my fingers in my ears, and growing scarlet, while the tears rush in mad haste to my eyes, for I imagine that I well know what is coming. "I do not want to hear! I had rather not! I hate old stories." He looks at me in silent dismay. "I mean," say I, seeing that some explanation is needed, "that I know all about it!—I have heard it already! I have been told it."
"Been told it? By whom?"
"Never mind by whom!" reply I, removing my fingers from my ears, and covering with both hot hands my hotter face. "I have been told it! I have heard it, and, what is more, I will not hear it again!"