"You heard
us," she said. "Where?"
"Under the open window."
"All the time?"
"From beginning to end."
She had listened--this girl of eighteen, in the first week of her
orphanage, had listened to the whole terrible revelation, word by word,
as it fell from the lawyer's lips; and had never once betrayed herself!
From first to last, the only movements which had escaped her had been
movements guarded enough and slight enough to be mistaken for the
passage of the summer breeze through the leaves!
"Don't try to speak yet," she said, in softer and gentler tones. "Don't
look at me with those doubting eyes. What wrong have I done? When Mr.
Pendril wished to speak to you about Norah and me, his letter gave us
our choice to be present at the interview, or to keep away. If my elder
sister decided to keep away, how could I come? How could I hear my
own story except as I did? My listening has done no harm. It has
done good--it has saved you the distress of speaking to us. You have
suffered enough for us already; it is time we learned to suffer for
ourselves. I have learned. And Norah is learning."
"Norah!"
"Yes. I have done all I could to spare you.
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