Mrs. Bellamy flushed a little, and the great pupils of her sleepy eyes
contracted till she looked quite dangerous.

"Then I must have strangely misunderstood you," she said.

"What do you want the letters for? Can't you trust me with them?"

"Don't you think, George, that if you had passed through something
very terrible, you would like to have all the mementoes of that dark
time destroyed? Those letters are the record of my terrible time;
nothing remains of it but those written lines. I want to burn them, to
stamp them into powder, to obliterate them as I have obliterated all
the past. Whilst they exist I can never feel safe. Supposing you were
to turn traitor to me and let those letters fall into the hands of
others, supposing that you lost them, I should be a ruined woman. I
speak frankly, you see; I fully appreciate my danger, principally
because I know that, the more intimate a man and woman have been, the
more chance there is of their becoming bitter enemies. George, give me
those letters; do not overcloud my future with the shadows of the
past."

"You talk as well as you do everything else, Anne; you are really a
very remarkable woman. But, curiously enough, those letters, the
existence of which is so obnoxious to you, are to me a source of great
interest. You know that I love to study character--curious occupation
for a young man, isn't it?--but I do. Well, in my small experience, I
have never yet, either in fiction or in real life, come across such a
fascinating display as is reflected in those letters. There I can, and
often do, trace in minutest detail the agony of a strong mind, can see
the barriers of what people call religion, early training, self-