"That was why you wanted--?"
"Why I wanted you to help him? Yes."
"Oh, God! . . . He wouldn't take money?"
"No, he wouldn't take money."
He sat silent, looking at her, noting with a morbid minuteness the
exquisite finish of her dress, that finish which seemed so much a
part of herself that it had never before struck him as a merely
purchasable accessory. He knew so little what a woman's dresses
cost! For a moment he lost himself in vague calculations; finally,
he said: "What did you do it for?"
"Do what?"
"Take money from Fleetwood."
She paused a moment and then said: "If you will let me explain--"
And then he saw that, all along, he had thought she would be able to
disprove it! A smothering blackness closed in on him, and he had a
physical struggle for breath. Then he forced himself to his feet and
said: "He was your lover?"
"Oh, no, no, _no!_" she cried with conviction. He hardly knew
whether the shadow lifted or deepened; the fact that he instantly
believed her seemed only to increase his bewilderment.
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