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"I don't want any money, and I shall stay here." She hesitated,
looked around her, and then added, with an effort, "I suppose you
meant well. Be it so! Let by-gones be by-gones. You said just
now, 'It's the same old Teresa.' So she is, and seeing she's the
same she's better here than anywhere else."
There was enough bitterness in her tone to call for Curson's
half-perfunctory sympathy.
"That be d--d," he responded quickly. "Jutht thay you'll come,
Tita, and--"
She stopped his half-spoken sentence with a negative gesture.
"You don't understand. I shall stay here."
"But even if they don't theek you here, you can't live here
forever. The friend that you wrote about who wath tho good to
you, you know, can't keep you here alwayth; and are you thure you
can alwayth trutht her?"
"It isn't a woman; it's a man." She stopped short, and colored
to the line of her forehead. "Who said it was a woman?" she
continued fiercely, as if to cover her confusion with a burst of
gratuitous anger. "Is that another of your lies?"
Curson's lips, which for a moment had completely lost their
smile, were now drawn together in a prolonged whistle. He gazed
curiously at her gown, at her hat, at the bow of bright ribbon
that tied her black hair, and said, "Ah!"
"A poor man who has kept my secret," she went on hurriedly--"a
man as friendless and lonely as myself. Yes," disregarding
Curson's cynical smile, "a man who has shared everything--"
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