I was determined not to deceive him, even in the merest trifle.
“I am feeling a little nervous, Eustace,” I answered; “that is all.”
He looked at me again, as if he expected me to say something more. I remained silent. He took a letter out of the breast-pocket of his coat and laid it on the table before me—just where the Confession had lain before I destroyed it!
“I have had a letter too this morning,” he said. “And I, Valeria, have no secrets from you.”
I understood the reproach which my husband’s last words conveyed; but I made no attempt to answer him.
“Do you wish me to read it?” was all I said pointing to the envelope which he had laid on the table.
“I have already said that I have no secrets from you,” he repeated. “The envelope is open. See for yourself what is inclosed in it.”
I took out—not a letter, but a printed paragraph, cut from a Scotch newspaper.
“Read it,” said Eustace.
I read as follows: