Suddenly something went awry in the inflamed chambers of Elizabeth's
mind--as if an electric current had been abruptly shut off. She
hesitated; she had meant to say more; but there was a staggering
vacuity.
With an effort she grasped a wavering thing of tangibility, and said:
"I'm going now, father--to give the keys to the butler for breakfast.
You can question Captain Barlow."
Elizabeth turned and left the room; her feet were like dependents,
servants that she had to direct to carry her on her way. She did not
call to the butler, but went to her room, closed the door, flung
herself on the bed, face downward, and sobbed; tears that scalded
splashed her cheeks, and she beat passionately with clenched fist at
the pillow, beating, as she knew, at her heart. It was incredible,
this thing, her feelings.
"I don't care--I don't care--I never did!" she gasped.
But she did, and only now knew it.
"I was right--I'm glad--I'd say it again!"
But she would not, and she knew it. She knew that Barlow could not be
a traitor; she knew it; it was just a battered new love asserting
itself.
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