...
But now--she thrust finger-nails cruelly into her soft palms, striving to
contain herself and keep her tongue from crying aloud to those three
brutal, blind men the truth: that she was guilty of the robbery, she with
Anisty; that Maitland was--Maitland: a word synonymous with "man of
honor."
In the beginning, indeed, all that restrained her from doing so was her
knowledge that Maitland would be more pained by her sacrifice than
gladdened or relieved. He was so sure of clearing himself.... It was
inconceivable to her that there could be men so stupid and crassly
unobservant as to be able to confuse the identity of the two men for a
single instant. What though they did resemble each other in form and
feature? The likeness went no deeper: below the surface, and rising
through it with every word and look and gesture, lay a world-wide gulf of
difference in every shade of thought, feeling, and instinct.
She herself could never again be deceived--no, never! Not for a second
could she mistake the one for the other.... What were they saying?
The turmoil of her indignation subsided as she listened, breathlessly, to
Maitland's story of his adventures; and the joy that leaped in her for his
frank mendacity in suppressing every incident that involved her, was all
but overpowering. She could have wept for sheer happiness; and at a later
time she would; but not now, when everything depended on her maintaining
the very silence of death.
How dared they doubt him? The insolents! The crude brutish insolence of
them! Her anger raged high again .
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