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She did not know exactly why she was certain of this--but she was
certain, absolutely certain. She remembered the long-ago days, when
she had submitted to him similar sheets. What Emile had read surely
she might read. Again that intense and bitter curiosity mingled with
something else, a strange, new jealousy in which it was rooted. She
felt as if Vere, this child whom she had loved and cared for, had done
her a cruel wrong, had barred her out from the life in which she had
always been till now the best loved, the most absolutely trusted
dweller. Why should she not take that which she ought to have been
given?
Again she was conscious of that painful, that piteous sensation of one
who is yielding under a strain that has been too prolonged. Something
surely collapsed within her, something of the part of her being that
was moral. She was no longer a free woman in that moment. She was
governed. Or so she felt, perhaps deceiving herself.
She went swiftly and softly over to the table and bent over the
sheets.


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