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He
had
taken
her
hand
,
and
she
said
to
herself
that
she
must
free
it
before
she
could
go
on
with
what
she
had
to
say
.
Then
she
rejected
this
concession
to
a
weakness
she
was
resolved
to
defy
.
To
the
end
she
would
leave
her
hand
in
his
hand
,
her
eyes
in
his
eyes
:
she
would
not
,
in
their
final
hour
together
,
be
afraid
of
any
part
of
her
love
for
him
.
“
You
’
ll
tell
me
to
-
night
,
dear
,
”
he
insisted
gently
;
and
his
insistence
gave
her
the
strength
to
speak
.
“
There
’
s
something
I
must
ask
you
,
”
she
broke
out
,
perceiving
,
as
she
heard
her
words
,
that
they
were
not
in
the
least
what
she
had
meant
to
say
.
He
sat
still
,
waiting
,
and
she
pressed
on
:
“
Do
such
things
happen
to
men
often
?
”
The
quiet
room
seemed
to
resound
with
the
long
reverberations
of
her
question
.
She
looked
away
from
him
,
and
he
released
her
and
stood
up
.
“
I
don
’
t
know
what
happens
to
other
men
.
Such
a
thing
never
happened
to
me
.
.
.
”
She
turned
her
eyes
back
to
his
face
.
She
felt
like
a
traveller
on
a
giddy
path
between
a
cliff
and
a
precipice
:
there
was
nothing
for
it
now
but
to
go
on
.
“
Had
it
.
.
.
had
it
begun
.
.
.
before
you
met
her
in
Paris
?
”
“
No
;
a
thousand
times
no
!
I
’
ve
told
you
the
facts
as
they
were
.
”
