She did not answer. She only lay, stiff as before. But her heart beat harder—I felt it lurch. I felt her draw in her breath. She held it. Then she spoke.
''Sue,'' she said, ''I wish you would tell me—''
Tell me the truth, I thought she was about to say; and my own heart beat like hers, I began to sweat. I thought, ''She knows. She has guessed!''—I almost thought, Thank God!
But it wasn''t that. It wasn''t that, at all. She drew in her breath_本_作_品_由_思_兔_網_提_供_線_上_閱_讀_
again, and again I felt her, nerving herself to ask some awful thing. I should have known what it was; for she had been nerving herself to ask it, I think, for a month. At last, the words burst from her.
''I wish you would tell me,'' she said, ''what it is a wife must do, on her wedding-night!''
I heard her, and blushed. Perhaps she did, too. It was too dark to see.
I said, ''Don''t you know?''
''I know there is—something.''
''But you don''t know what?''
''How should I?''
''But truly, miss: you mean, you don''t know?''
''How should I?'' she cried, rising up from her pillow. ''Don''t you see, don''t you see? I am too ignorant even to know what it is I am ignorant of!'' She shook. Then I felt her make herself steady. ''I think,'' she said, in a flat, unnatural voice,