It cut through her apathy irresistibly. A sharp
tremor went through her. "That," she said rather breathlessly,
"was a mistake."
"It was." said Burke. "The greatest mistake of your life. It is a
pity you took the trouble to lie to me. The truth would have
served you better." He turned from her contemptuously with the
words, setting her free.
For a moment the relief of his going was such that the intention
that lay behind it did not so much as occur to her. Then suddenly
it flashed upon her. He was going in search of Guy.
In an instant her passivity was gone. The necessity for action
drove her forward. With a cry she sprang to the door before him,
and set herself against it. She could not let him go with that
look of the murderer in his eyes.
"Burke!" she gasped. "Burke! What--are you going to do?"
His lips parted a little, and she saw his teeth. "You shall hear
what I have done--afterwards," he said. "Let me pass!"
But she barred his way. Her numbed senses were all awake now and
quivering. The very fact of physical effort seemed to have
restored to her the power to suffer. She stood before him, her
bosom heaving with great sobs that brought no tears or relief of
any sort to the anguish that tore her.
"You--you can't pass," she said. "Not--not--like this! Burke,
listen! I swear to you--I swear----"
"You needn't," he broke in.
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