Yet no one could have mistaken the
impulse of her grief. It was for herself she wept.
Was it possible that she was a child still? A child in spite of her
woman's knowledge, and the dulled lustre of her hair? Callandar
remembered grimly that Molly's views of right and wrong had always been
peculiarly simple. She had never wished to do wrong, but when she had
done it, it had never seemed so very wrong to her. Her greatest dread
had always been the dread of other people's censure.
"Don't cry," he said gently.
She must have felt the change in his voice, for although her sobs
redoubled she did not again shrink from the hand he laid upon her hair.
It was all over. She had told him the truth. Surely he must see that he
was the one to blame, not she.
After a while she dried her eyes and looked up at him timidly but with
restored confidence.
"People need never know now!" she said more calmly.
"People? Do people matter?"
She picked a daisy and began nervously to strip it of its petals--a pang
of agony caught at the man's heart.
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