I didn't want to tell him, of course; so I just stammered out something about being sorry I had disturbed him.

Then I edged toward the door to show him that if he would step one side I would go away at once and not bother him any longer.
But he didn't step one side.

He asked more questions, one right after another.
"Are you sick, Mary ?" I shook my head.
"Did you hurt yourself ?" I shook my head again.
"It isn't--your mother--you haven't had bad news from her ?" And then I blurted it out without thinking--without thinking at all what I was saying: "No, no--but I wish I had, I wish I had; 'cause then I could go to her, and go away from here!" The minute I'd said it I _knew_ what I'd said, and how awful it sounded; and I clapped my fingers to my lips.

But 'twas too late.

It's always too late, when you've once said it.