THE TOUCHSTONE
caught her hands. "Don't you see that it's become an obsession with me? That if I could strip myself down to the last lie—only there'd always be another one left under it!—and do penance naked in the market-place, I should at least have the relief of easing one anguish by another? Don't you see that the worst of my torture is the impossibility of such amends?"
Her hands lay in his without returning pressure. "Ah, poor woman, poor woman," he heard her sigh.
"Don't pity her, pity me! What have I done to her or to you, after all? You're both inaccessible! It was myself I sold."
He took an abrupt turn away from her; then halted before her again. "How much longer," he burst out, "do you suppose you can stand it? You've been magnificent, you've been inspired, but what's the use? You can't wipe out the ignominy of it. It's miserable for you and it does her no good!"
She lifted a vivid face. "That's the thought I can't bear!" she cried.
"What thought?"
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