"You don't have to explain," he told her, "unless you are sure you want
to. Sometimes, you see, I understand things without any special
explanation. It's a trick one learns from living alone a lot with
one's own thoughts. I told you, last night, that I wouldn't have you
saying 'I'm sorry' to me. And now I'll tell you that nothing you can
ever say, now, is going to stop me from----"
"I want to, please," she interrupted him vehemently. "I--have to! And
I'm not going to make believe that I don't know what you are going to
tell me--what you have been saying to me, all morning. But it can't do
any good. Why, I'm just realizing that something which has been
hurting me for hours was just--just sorrow for you. It can't do any
good, oh, truly! But will you let me talk first, if I promise to
listen afterward?"
He promised.
"Twice I've been bitterly unkind to you," she began again. "Once a
long time ago--and--and once last night. And on both occasions you had
just tried to tell me, indirectly at least, that you cared, hadn't you?"
"Indirectly?" he murmured. "Was I as obscure as that?" And then,
whimsically: "Won't you call that explanation enough, and let me tell
it to you again--so you can't misunderstand?"
"I've asked you to forgive me the first offense," she hurriedly denied
his appeal. "And the second--Mr. O'Mara, last night Miriam said
something to me, something that she wouldn't have said if she hadn't
been half mad with fear.
Pages:
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184