"Explain...." She had not thought there would be any explanation needed—or, if needed, possible.
"Yes—I ought to have written, but I couldn't, somehow—or rather, I wrote you a dozen letters, and tore them all up."
She wondered why she felt so calm.
"I—I asked my father to call and see you."
"You mean to say—he knows?"
"Yes."
"Oh, my God!"
Her calmness staggered, and all but collapsed. For the first time her doubts gave way to even bitterer realisation. This confession to Quentin's father, this betrayal of the secret she had spent her health and happiness for four years to keep, made her grasp what an hour ago had seemed beyond the reach even of credulity.
"Quentin—why did you tell him?—how could you!—after all we've suffered...."
"I—I—I was desperate, Janey, I had to tell some one, and he was so sympathetic—much more than I'd expected."