"Something, surely," said Durrance.
"It does not prevent Ethne from shrinking from her friend," cried Mrs.
Adair. "She shrinks from you. Shall I tell you why? Because you are
blind. She is afraid. While I--I will tell you the truth--I am glad.
When the news first came from Wadi Halfa that you were blind, I was
glad; when I saw you in Hill Street, I was glad; ever since, I have been
glad--quite glad. Because I saw that she shrank. From the beginning she
shrank, thinking how her life would be hampered and fettered," and the
scorn of Mrs. Adair's voice increased, though her voice itself was sunk
to a whisper. "I am not afraid," she said, and she repeated the words
passionately again and again. "I am not afraid. I am not afraid."
To Durrance it seemed that in all his experience nothing so horrible had
ever occurred as this outburst by the woman who was Ethne's friend,
nothing so unforeseen.
"Ethne wrote to you at Wadi Halfa out of pity," she went on, "that was
all. She wrote out of pity; and, having written, she was afraid of what
she had done; and being afraid, she had not courage to tell you she was
afraid. You would not have blamed her, if she had frankly admitted it;
you would have remained her friend.
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