"But with him, at cards with him, Mr. John Parish, a certain game
of cards with him--one day,--a certain winter day years ago, when
you both were younger--when the train was snowbound in the North?
And you played then, for what? What were the stakes then, in that
particular game with Mr. John Parish? Do you chance to recall?"
"Madam, you credit me with frankness. I will not claim even so
much. But since you have heard a rumor that died out long years
ago--which was denied--which even now I might better deny--since,
in fact you know the truth--why should I deny the truth?"
"Then you two played a game, at cards,--for a woman? And Mr.
Parish won? Was it not true?"
A new and different expression passed over the face of the
gentleman before her. Her chin still rested in her hand, her other
arm, long, round, white, lay out upon the table before him. He
could see straight into her wide eyes, see the heave of her throat
now under its shining circlet, see the color of her cheek, feel the
tenseness of all her mind and body as she questioned him about his
long forgotten past.
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