"'I want to confess! I've been horribly depraved for a week!'"
"Are—are you going to?"
"Of course I am!" ... She drew away and sat up very straight in bed, serious, sombre-eyed, hands clasped tightly about her knees.
"Do you know," she said, as though to herself, "it is curious that a trivial desire for anything like that"—pointing to Rosalie's gift—"should make me restless—annoy me, cause me discomfort. I can't understand why it should actually torment me. It really does, sometimes."
"That is the terrible part of it," faltered Kathleen. "For God's sake, keep clear of anything with even the faintest odour of alcohol about it.... Where did you find that cut-glass thing?"
"Rosalie gave it to me."
"What is in it?"
"I don't know—crême de something or other."
Kathleen took the girl's tightly clasped hands in hers: