"Oh, no, you haven't," I groaned. "God forgive you, Garry; God forgive you! She's not my—not what you think. She's my wife!"
CHAPTER XXII
I thought that he would faint. His face went white as paper and he shrank back. He gazed at me with wild, straining eyes.
"God forgive me! Oh, why didn't you tell me, boy? Why didn't you tell me?"
In his voice there was a note more poignant than a sob.
"You should have trusted me," he went on. "You should have told me. When were you married?"
"Just a month ago. I was keeping it as a surprise for you. I was waiting till you said you liked and thought well of her. Oh, I thought you would be pleased and glad, and I was treasuring it up to tell you."
"This is terrible, terrible!"
His voice was choked with agony. On her chair, Berna drooped wearily. Her wide, staring eyes were fixed on the floor in pitiful perplexity.