lying, cheating, running up bills, promising to pay—oh! I hate myself when I

think of it all! That’s what brought us together, Ralph and I. We were both

weak! I understood him, and I was sorry—because I’m the same underneath. We’re

not strong enough to stand alone, either of us. We’re weak, miserable,

despicable things.”

 

She looked at Blunt and suddenly stamped her foot.

 

“Why do you look at me like that—as though you couldn’t believe? I may be a

thief—but at any rate I’m real now. I’m not lying any more. I’m not pretending

to be the kind of girl you like, young and innocent and simple. I don’t care if

you never want to see me again. I hate myself, despise myself—but you’ve got to

believe one thing, if speaking the truth would have made things better for

Ralph, I would have spoken out.

 

But I’ve seen all along that it wouldn’t be better for Ralph—it makes the case

against him blacker than ever. I was not doing him any harm by sticking to my

lie.”

 

“Ralph,” said Blunt. “I see—always Ralph.”

 

“You don’t understand,” said Flora hopelessly. “You never will.”

 

She turned to the inspector.