for a week had reflectively to pronounce things—another affair. Ah, somehow, both formidably and helpfully, her face concluded—yet in a sense so strangely enshrouded in things she didn't tell him. What must she, what mustn't she, have done? What she had said—she had really told him nothing—was no account of her life; in the midst of which conflict of opposed recognitions, at any rate, it was as if, for all he could do, he himself now considerably floundered. "But I can't think—I can't think!—"
"You can't think I can have made so much money in the time and been honest?"
"Oh, you've been honest!" Herbert Dodd distinctly allowed.
It moved her stillness to a gesture—which, however, she had as promptly checked; and she went on the next instant as for further generosity to his failure of thought. "Everything was possible, under my stress, with my hatred."
"Your hatred—?" For she had paused as if it were after all too difficult.
"Of what I should for so long have been doing to you."
With this, for all his failures, a greater light than any yet shone upon him. "It made you think of ways—?"
"It made me think of everything. It made me work," said Kate Cookham. She added, however, the next moment: "But that's my story."
"And I mayn't hear it?"
