"I—I ill? You know I was not ill," she said hurriedly and impatiently, and either forgetting or despising her own excuse of but a moment before. "You came—you came for a purpose, Julie—yes, yes—do not deny it—there is perfidy enough already."
"You wrong me, Lucille; I told you the simple truth—why should I deceive you?"
"Why—why? Because the world is full of deceit, full of falsehood and treason—they are every where, every where."
She turned away, and Julie perceived that she was weeping.
She was pained and puzzled—nay, she was crossed every moment by the horrid fear that Lucille's mind was unsettled. Her strange agitation seemed otherwise unaccountable.
"Lucille—dear Lucille—surely you will not be angry with your poor little friend—surely you believe Julie."
She looked at her for a moment, and said—
"Yes, Julie, I do believe you;" and so saying, she kissed her. "But—but I am utterly, and I fear irremediably miserable."
"But what is the cause of your wretchedness, my dear Lucille?"
"This place—this solitude oppresses me; I cannot endure the isolation to which I am unnaturally and tyrannically condemned. Oh, Julie! there are circumstances, secrets, miseries, I dare not tell you; fate is weaving round me a net, to all eyes but my own invisible. But why do you look at me with those strange glances? Do not believe that I am guilty, because I am miserable—do not dare to touch me with such a thought."