Had he the right to torture her so? To
suspect her? She could read it in his eyes. Her conscience was clear. She
was no man's slave. She would not be any man's slave. She was master of
her own soul. What right had he to catechise her--as though she were a
servant or a criminal? But she checked the answer on her tongue, because
she was hurt deeper than words could express, and she said, composedly:
"I have here a letter from my cousin Lacey, who is with Claridge Pasha.
It has news of him, of events in the Soudan. He had fever, there was to
be a fight, and I wished to know if you had any later news. I thought
that document there might contain news, but I did not read it. I realised
that it was not yours, that it belonged to the Government, that I had no
right. Perhaps you will tell me if you have news. Will you?" She leaned
against the table wearily, holding her letter.
"Let me read your letter first," he said wilfully.
A mist seemed to come before her eyes; but she was schooled to
self-command, and he did not see he had given her a shock.
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