She waited and trembled; she waited, and said no
more.
"May I speak to you about your letters?" he asked. "May I tell you--?"
If she had looked at him as he said those few words, she would have seen
what he thought of her in his face. She would have seen, innocent as
he was in this world's knowledge, that he knew the priceless value, the
all-ennobling virtue, of a woman who speaks the truth. But she had no
courage to look at him--no courage to raise her eyes from her lap.
"Not just yet," she said, faintly. "Not quite so soon after we have met
again."
She rose hurriedly from her chair, and walked to the window, turned back
again into the room, and approached the table, close to where he was
sitting. The writing materials scattered near him offered her a pretext
for changing the subject, and she seized on it directly. "Were you
writing a letter," she asked, "when I came in?"
"I was thinking about it," he replied. "It was not a letter to be
written without thinking first." He rose as he answered her to gather
the writing materials together and put them away.
"Why should I interrupt you?" she said. "Why not let me try whether I
can't help you instead? Is it a secret?"
"No, not a secret.
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