"So you know, then?"
She flushed.
"Yes, I know--I heard. People talk. But I've not been gossiping,
Eliot--truly."
A brief smile crossed his face.
"You--gossiping! That's good. But I might have guessed you would hear all
about it. Even one's own particular rack and thumbscrew aren't private
property nowadays"--bitterly. "I wonder how much you know. What have you
heard?"
"Oh, very little--" she began confusedly, her heart aching for the
bitterness which still lingered in his voice.
"Tell me," he insisted authoritatively. "I'd rather you knew the truth than
some garbled version of it."
Very reluctantly Ann repeated what she had learned from Mrs. Hilyard--the
bare facts of that unhappy episode in his life which had turned him into a
soured, embittered man.
"Anything more? Do you know who the woman was--her name?"
"No. Only that she was very young"--pitifully.
"I believe," he said, cupping her face in his hand and turning it up to
his, "I believe you are actually _sorry_ for her?"
"Yes, I am. I'm sorry for any one who makes a dreadful mistake and loses
their whole happiness through it," she answered heartily.
"I'm afraid I don't take such a broad-minded view of things," he returned
grimly.
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