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 a coward, a mean, miserable coward…. I wish—I wish I had never been born.” Then she straightened up suddenly, fiercely. “What did he say?… How did he act? Tell me.”

“He? Who?”

“Never mind…. Nobody…. I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s been a dreadful night and I—I’m half crazy.”

“Who do you mean?” persisted Myrtle. “Malcolm?”

“What do I care what Malcolm said or what Malcolm thought!” Lydia burst out vehemently. “I know about him—all about him. Why, I’m going to marry him. I’m going to live in the same house with him—all my life…. He’s going to be my husband—my husband!…” Again she threw herself on the bed, silent now, tense, with hands clenched and pressed over her ears, as if they might by some magic shut out the entire world from her thoughts.

Myrtle was frightened, would have called Mary Browning, but Lydia suddenly clung to her, would not let her go. She drew Lydia to her, held closely this proud girl who never would submit to embraces or familiarities, held her tightly, stroking her hair and her cheek as if she were any common girl in trouble…. What, she wondered, could have caused this outburst?… She herself was engaged, but the days