"
"Mrs. Falchion," said I, "between us there need be no delicate words. You
appear to have neither imagination, nor idolatry, nor remembrances, nor
common womanly kindness."
"Indeed!" she said. "Yet you might know me better." Here she touched my
arm with the tips of her fingers, and, in spite of myself, I felt my
pulse beat faster. It seemed to me that in her presence, even now, I
could not quite trust myself. "Indeed!" she repeated. "And who made you
omniscient, Dr. Marmion? You hardly do yourself justice. You hold a
secret. You insist on reminding me of the fact. Is that in perfect
gallantry? Do you know me altogether, from your knowledge of that one
thing? You are vain. Or does the secret wear on you, and--Mr. Hungerford?
Was it necessary to seek HIS help in keeping it?"
I told her then the true history of Hungerford's connection with Boyd
Madras, and also begged her pardon for showing just now my knowledge of
her secret. At this she said, "I suppose I should be grateful," and was
there a slightly softer cadence to her voice?
"No, you need not be grateful," I said. "We are silent, first, because he
wished it; then because you are a woman.
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