"Your face frightens me." It was useless to prolong the pain of the inevitable misunderstanding between them.

The one course to take was to silence all further inquiries then and there.

Strongly as she felt this, Anne's inbred loyalty to Blanche still shrank from deceiving her to her face.

"I might write it," she thought.

"I can't say it, with Arnold Brinkworth in the same house with her!" Write it?
As she reconsidered the word, a sudden idea struck her.