“But when you get home, the black mood may come over you again. Can’t you forget all the horrid past—the prison—and all that?” It was the first time she had ever alluded to it directly; her voice quavered on the word.
“No, I can never forget it,” he replied in a low tone. “If I live to be a hundred, I shall remember it on my deathbed.”
“You seem to feel it—just like a woman does—who has been on the streets—as if nothing could wipe it away.”
He was startled. Signs had not been wanting of a change coming over Yvonne, but he had never heard a saying on her lips of such perceptive earnestness. It was strange, too, that she had hit upon a parallel that had been in his mind since the night he had met Annie Stevens.
“Nothing can wipe it away, Yvonne. It is like a woman’s sense of degradation—just as you say.”
“I would give anything—my voice over again, if I had it—to help you. You have never told me about it—the dreadful part of it—I want to know—every bit—tell me now, will you?”
“You would loathe me, as much as I loathe myself, if I told you.”
He was lying on one elbow, by her side. She ventured a gossamer touch upon his forehead.
“You don’t know much about a woman, although you do write books,” she said.
The touch and the tone awoke a great need of expansion. He struggled for a few moments, and at last gave way.