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 death, and of his own share in it, were as nothing in the disaster of his bright irreclaimableness. Once, when she had cried out, &quot;You would have married me and said nothing,&quot; and he groaned back, &quot;But I have told you,&quot; she felt like a trainer with a lash above some bewildered animal.

But she persisted savagely. &quot;You told me because you had to; because your nerves gave way; because you knew it couldn't hurt you to tell.&quot; The perplexed appeal of his gaze had almost checked her. &quot;You told me because it was a relief; but nothing will really relieve you—nothing will really help you—till you have told some one who—who will hurt you.&quot;

&quot;Who will hurt me—?&quot;

&quot;Till you have told the truth as—as openly as you lied.&quot;

He started up, ghastly with fear. &quot;I don't understand you.&quot;

&quot;You must confess, then—publicly—