She clasped her hands to still
her quivering nerves. This fresh ordeal was proving too much for her.
"I can't help it," she said, with white lips. "I often mislay things. I
am careless, I know. But I always find them again sooner or later. I will
have a look for it while you are dressing."
Her words ran on almost meaninglessly. She was speaking for the sake of
speaking, because silence would have been too terrible to be borne,
because if she had ceased to speak she must have screamed. Even as it
was, the fact that her husband said nothing whatever was driving her
almost to distraction.
Suddenly she realized that he was waiting for her to stop, that her words
were making no impression, that he was not so much as listening to them,
his attention being focussed upon her and her alone.
She broke off in desperation. She met his steady eyes. "Don't you--don't
you believe me, Trevor?"
He did not instantly reply. For one dreadful moment she thought that he
was going to answer in the negative. And then very deliberately he
declined her direct challenge.
"I think," he said quietly, "that you don't know what you are saying.
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