I don't want you to hate me.

And you would hate me if I told you the truth." "Then you confess you are lying," he suggested brutally.
Even this did not stir her as he had expected it might.

It did not anger her or shame her.

But she raised a pale hand and a little handkerchief to her eyes, and he turned toward the open port, puffing at his cigar, knowing she was fighting to keep the tears back.

And she succeeded.
"No, I am not lying.