Verrian was aware how deeply and absorbingly he had brooded upon the
incident which he had done his utmost to close, when he found himself
expecting an answer of some sort from his unknown correspondent. He
perceived, then, without owning the fact, that he had really hoped for
some protest, some excuse, some extenuation, which in the end would
suffer him to be more merciful. Though he had wished to crush her into
silence, and to forbid her all hope of his forgiveness, he had, in a
manner, not meant to do it. He had kept a secret place in his soul where
the sinner against him could find refuge from his justice, and when this
sanctuary remained unattempted he found himself with a regret that he had
barred the way to it so effectually. The regret was so vague, so
formless, however, that he could tacitly deny it to himself at all times,
and explicitly deny it to his mother at such times as her touch taught
him that it was tangible.
One day, after ten or twelve days had gone by, she asked him, "You
haven't heard anything more from that girl?"
"What girl?" he returned, as if he did not know; and he frowned. "You
mean the girl that wrote me about my story?"
He continued to frown rather more darkly. "I don't see how you could
expect me to hear from her, after what I wrote.
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