Her face flushed up then, and she didn't meet my eyes.

She looked down at her sewing.

She was very busy turning a hem _just so_.
She said there had been a time, once, when she had worried a little about Jerry and me, for fear we would--separate.

She said that she believed that, for her, that would have been the very blackest moment of her life; for it would be her fault, all her fault.
I tried to break in here, and say, "No, no," and that it wasn't her fault; but she shook her head and wouldn't listen, and she lifted her hand, and I had to keep still and let her go on talking.

She was looking straight into my eyes then, and there was such a deep, deep hurt in them that I just had to listen.
She said again that it would be her fault; that if I had done that she would have known that it was all because of the example she herself had set me of childish willfulness and selfish seeking of personal happiness at the expense of everything and everybody else.