"Your father's, yours, mine," she replied, in a whisper almost.
"Secret? What secret? Good Lord, such mystery!" He laughed mirthlessly.
She came close to him. "I am sorry--sorry, Harry," she said with
difficulty. "It will hurt you, shock you so. It will be a blow to you,
but you must bear it."
She tried to speak further, but her heart was beating so violently that
she could not. She turned quickly to the portfolio on the desk, drew
forth the fatal letter, and, turning to the page which contained the
truth concerning David, handed it to him. "It is there," she said.
He had great self-control. Before looking at the page to which she had
directed his attention, he turned the letter over slowly, fingering the
pages one by one. "My mother to my father," he remarked.
Instinctively he knew what it contained. "You have been reading my
mother's correspondence," he added in cold reproof.
"Do you forget that you asked me to arrange her papers?" she retorted,
stung by his suggestion.
"Your imagination is vivid," he exclaimed.
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