"Then leave it at that," he rejoined indifferently. "I've no particular
grounds for being anything else. The past is dead--and it won't stand
resurrection."
"Does the past ever die?" she demanded, a note of despair in her voice.
"I think not."
He looked at her curiously--at the beautiful face, a trifle worn and
shadowed, with its sad eyes and that strangely patient curve of mouth.
"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.
"One pays, Eliot."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, yes, one pays. But, in this particular instance, I thought it was I
who paid and you who took delivery of the goods."
She sprang up.
"Then you were wrong!" she exclaimed in low, passionate tones that, in
spite of himself, moved him strangely. "If you paid, I paid, too--every day
of my life. Oh, I had my punishment"--with a little laugh that held more
anguish than any tears. "Full measure, pressed down, running over."
He bent his sombre gaze on her.
"I don't think I understand," he said slowly.
"Don't you?" With a swift movement she thrust back the loose tulle sleeve
which veiled her arm, uncovering the ugly, rust-coloured scar which marred
its whiteness.
"That--that--?" He stammered off into a shocked silence, his eyes fastened
on the scar, so unmistakably that of a burn.
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