awful voice.

"Yes, I had told Alice. She was so hurt for me that I think she might
have told."

"Then she may tell now. I will go to her."

"She will not tell now. And I am not hard. It is you who are hard
upon yourself and that nobody, least of all I, can help. You will
have to know this dreadful thing of yourself all your life and you
can never stop blaming yourself. There is no way out of it. You can
not ruin your husband. You can not ruin your children's future and
you cannot, after the wrong you have done me, put me in the wrong, as
you would do if you told. By telling the truth, you would put me to
the lie, when I kept silence for your sake and the sakes of your
husband and children."

"I did not know it would be like this," said Margaret in her
desperate voice. "I had done nothing worth doing all my life and the
hunger to do something had tormented me. It seemed easy, I did not
know how I could blame myself. I have always thought so well of
myself; I did not know. Annie, for God's sake, let me tell. You can't
know how keenly I suffer, Annie. Let me tell Mr. von Rosen. People
always tell ministers. Even if he does not tell Wilbur, but perhaps
he can tell him and soften it, it would be a relief. People always
tell ministers, Annie."

It seemed improbable that Margaret Edes in her wisteria costume could
be speaking. Annie regarded her with almost horror. She pitied her,
yet she could not understand. Margaret had done something of which
she herself was absolutely incapable. She had the right to throw the
stone. She looked at a sinner whose sin was beyond her comprehension.
She pitied the evident signs of distress, but her pity, although
devoid of anger, was, in spite of herself, coldly wondering.
Moreover, Margaret had been guilty in the eyes of the girl of a much
worse sin than the mere thievery of her book; she had murdered love.
Annie had loved Margaret greatly. No, she loved her no longer, since
the older woman had actually blasphemed against the goddess whom the
girl had shrined. Had Margaret stolen from another, it would have
made no difference. The mere act had destroyed herself as an image of
love. Annie, especially now that she was so happy, cared nothing for
the glory of which she had been deprived. She had, in truth, never
had much hunger for fame, especially for herself. She did not care
when she thought how pleased her lover would have been and her
relatives, but already the plan for another boo