"Mary," said Mildred, "speak low and tell me everything."
She sat in my chair, I knelt by her side, took one of her hands in both of mine, and told her.
I told her that I had fled from my husband's house because I could not bear to remain there any longer.
I told her that my father had married me against my will, in spite of my protests, when I was a child, and did not know that I had any right to resist him.
I told her that my father—God forgive me if I did him a wrong—did not love me, that he had sacrificed my happiness to his lust of power, and that if he were searching for me now it was only because my absence disturbed his plans and hurt his pride.
I told her that my husband did not love me either, and that he had married me from the basest motives, merely to pay his debts and secure an income.
I told her, too, that not only did my husband not love me, but he loved somebody else, that he had been cruel and brutal to me, and therefore (for these and other reasons) I could not return to him under any circumstances.
While I was speaking I felt Mildred's hand twitching between mine, and when I had finished she said:
"But, my dear child, they told me your friends were broken-hearted about you; that you had lost your memory and perhaps your reason, and therefore it would be a good act to help them to send you home."
"It's not true, it's not true," I said.