"What!" said the Duke.
"Yes, I do . . . I hate her!" said Sonia; and her eyes, no longer gentle, glowed with the sombre resentment, the dull rage of the weak who turn on Fortune. Her gentle voice was harsh with rebellious wrath.
"You hate her?" said the Duke quickly.
"I should never have told you that. . . . But now I dare. . . . I dare speak out. . . . It's you! . . . It's you——" The avowal died on her lips. A burning flush crimsoned her cheeks and faded as quickly as it came: "I hate her!" she muttered.
"Sonia——" said the Duke gently.
"Oh! I know that it's no excuse. . . . I know that you're thinking 'This is a very pretty story, but it's not her first theft'; . . . and it's true—it's the tenth, . . . perhaps it's the twentieth. . . . It's true—I am a thief." She paused, and the glow deepened in her eyes. "But there's one thing you must believe—you shall believe; since you came, since I've known you, since the first day you set eyes on me, I have stolen no more . . . till yesterday when you gave her the pendant before me. I could not bear it . . . I could not." She paused and looked at him with eyes that demanded an assent.
