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 bellious—and it hurt me—and so I hated you at times. Oh, I was so ashamed of it—I’m dying of shame now—but I couldn’t conquer it.

That night, when I was afraid you mightn’t live—I thought I was going to be punished for my wickedness—and I loved you so then. Anne, Anne, I never had anything to love since my mother died, except Dick’s old dog—and it’s so dreadful to have nothing to love—life is so empty—and there’s nothing worse than emptiness—and I might have loved you so much—and that horrible thing had spoiled it—”

Leslie was trembling and growing almost incoherent with the violence of her emotion.

“Don’t, Leslie,” implored Anne, “oh, don’t. I understand—don’t talk of it any more.”

“I must—I must. When I knew you were going to live I vowed that I would tell you as soon as you were well—that I wouldn’t go on accepting your friendship and companionship without telling you how unworthy I was of it. And I’ve been so afraid—it would turn you against me.”

“You needn’t fear that, Leslie.”

“Oh, I’m so glad—so glad, Anne.” Leslie clasped her brown, work-hardened hands tightly together to still their shaking. “But I want to tell you everything, now I’ve begun. You don’t remember the first time I saw you, I suppose—it wasn’t that night on the shore—”