She dropped his hand at this, got up and, moving across the room, made straight a small picture to which, on examining it, he had given a slight push. Then, turning round on him, with her pale gayety recovered: “I’ve forgiven him!” she declared.
“I know what you’ve done,” said Stransom; “I know what you’ve done for years.” For a moment they looked at each other across the room, with their long community of service in their eyes. This short passage made, to Stransom’s sense, for the woman before him, an immense, an absolutely naked confession; which was presently, suddenly blushing red and changing her place again, what she appeared to become aware that he perceived in it. He got up. “How you must have loved him!”
“Women are not like men. They can love even where they’ve suffered.”
“Wome
