"
The young man stared at him. "I have nothing to forgive you for, Mr.
Dayne. In fact, I have no idea what you are talking about."
But Mr. Dayne did not enlighten him; in fact he was already walking
briskly down the hall. Clearly the man had business that would not brook
an instant's delay.
Hat in hand, the young man turned, plainly puzzled, and found himself
looking at a white-faced little girl who gave back his look with brave
steadiness.
"Do you think you can forgive me, too?" she asked in a very small
voice.
He came three steps forward, into the middle of the room, and there
halted dead, staring at her with a look of searching inquiry.
"I don't understand this," he said, in his controlled voice.
"What are you talking about?"
"Mr. West," said Sharlee, "has told me all about it. About the
reformatory. And I'm sorry."
There she stuck. Of all the speeches of prostrate yet somehow noble
self-flagellation which in the night seasons she had so beautifully
polished, not one single word could she now recall. Yet she continued to
meet his gaze, for so should apologies be given though the skies fall;
and she watched as one fascinated the blood slowly ebb from his
close-set face.
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