She gave no sign of surprise.

Hilliard read in her face that she had prepared herself for this encounter.
"Come away where we can talk," he said abruptly.
She walked by him to a part of the station where only a porter passed occasionally.

The echoings beneath the vaulted roof allowed them to speak without constraint, for their voices were inaudible a yard or two off.

Hilliard would not look into her face, lest he should be softened to foolish clemency.
"It's very kind of you," he began, with no clear purpose save the desire of harsh speech, "to ask me to overlook this trifle, and let things be as before." "I have said all I _can_ say in the letter.

I deserve all your anger." That was the note he dreaded, the too well remembered note of pathetic submission.