There was something in his look, and something in her
own heart, which told her that this was no boyish whim or fancy, such as
she was often called to comfort and beguile for him. She could not see
his face distinctly enough to gather anything from looking at him; they
were standing beyond the broad band of light streaming from the open
door. But there was no need for sight; he poured out the story almost in
a breath, ending with Paul's message to her. And she understood more
than he had said, far more than he could ever say or understand, before
the words had fairly left his lips. The divination of a woman's
love--that marvellous white light--flashed the whole truth, and she
uttered a smothered cry as she saw it. So crying out, she shrank away
from him, and threw off his hand and struck at him fiercely, like some
soft little wild thing suddenly hurt.
"How could you? Why did you tell him?" she cried. "I hate you. I'll hate
you for this as long as I live. You have sent him to his death--you
meddler, you simpleton! And you don't even know what you have done.
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