"I judge," he finally said, "that I
know what you mean. Only I had strangely enough lost any sense of
having taken you so far into my confidence."
"Is it because you've taken so many others as well?"
"I've taken nobody. Not a creature since then."
"So that I'm the only person who knows?"
"The only person in the world."
"Well," she quickly replied, "I myself have never spoken. I've
never, never repeated of you what you told me." She looked at him
so that he perfectly believed her. Their eyes met over it in such
a way that he was without a doubt. "And I never will."
She spoke with an earnestness that, as if almost excessive, put him
at ease about her possible derision. Somehow the whole question
was a new luxury to him--that is from the moment she was in
possession. If she didn't take the sarcastic view she clearly took
the sympathetic, and that was what he had had, in all the long
time, from no one whomsoever. What he felt was that he couldn't at
present have begun to tell her, and yet could profit perhaps
exquisitely by the accident of having done so of old.
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