His trembling ceased; he did not start, but rose in an abstracted way,
and made a few deliberate steps in the direction Teresa had gone. Even
then he was so confused that he was obliged to refer to the paper again,
but with so little effect that he could only repeat the last words,
"think sometimes of Teresa." He was conscious that this was not all; he
had a full conviction of being deceived, and knew that he held the
proof in his hand, but he could not formulate it beyond that sentence.
"Teresa"--yes, he would think of her. She would explain it. And here she
was returning.

In that brief interval her face and manner had again changed. Her face
was pale and quite breathless. She cast a swift glance at Dunn and the
paper he mechanically held out, walked up to him, and tore it from his
hand.

"Well," she said hoarsely, "what are you going to do about it?"

He attempted to speak, but his voice failed him. Even then he was
conscious that if he had spoken he would have only repeated, "think
sometimes of Teresa." He looked longingly but helplessly at the spot
where she had thrown the paper, as if it had contained his unuttered
words.

"Yes," she went on to herself, as if he was a mute, indifferent
spectator--"yes, they're gone. That ends it all. The game's played out.
Well!" suddenly turning upon him, "now you know it all. Your Nellie WAS
here with him, and is with him now. Do you hear? Make the most of it;
you've lost them--but here I am."