"
William, his hand still outstretched, stared at her, his mouth falling
slowly open.
"I told you," she said, "that I wasn't--good."
_"My God!"_ said William King. He stepped back sharply, then suddenly
sat down, leaning his head on his clenched hand.
Helena, turning slightly, saw him. "I always told you I wasn't," she
cried out angrily; "why would you insist on saying I was?"
He did not seem to notice her, though perhaps he shrank a little. That
movement, even if she only imagined it, was like the touch of flame.
She felt an intolerable dismay. It was more than anger, far more than
terror; it seemed to envelop her whole body with a wave of scarlet. It
was a new, unbearable, burning anguish. It was shame.
She had an impulse to tear it from her, as if it were some tangible
horror, some blazing film, that was covering her flesh. With a cry,
she broke out:
"You don't understand! I am not wicked. Do you hear me? I am not
wicked. You must listen I"
He made no answer.
"I am not wicked--the way you think. My husband killed my baby. I told
you that, long ago. And I could not live with him. I couldn't I Don't
you see? Oh, listen, please! Please listen! And Lloyd loved me, and he
said I would be happy. And I went away. And we thought Frederick would
divorce me, so we could be married. But he didn't. Oh, he didn't _on
purpose_! And we have been waiting for him to die.
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