But, Mary, I am not a thief at heart, I never
was one. Whatever I did that was crooked in the old days was due to
whiskey. It's a habit men have, I know, blaming everything on to
whiskey, but--but, oh, say, Mary, you _know_ I wasn't that sort
of a man when I married you. I was straight, wasn't I? I never had
done a crooked thing in my life. I don't think I'd ever told a lie. I
had a good mother, just as Christine has. But what the devil am I
doing--talking like this!" The eager, rather appealing note went out
of his voice; he almost snarled the bitter sentence. "I didn't come to
explain, or to beg, or to excuse myself. I won't keep you any longer.
Remember, I'm not asking anything of you, Mary,--not a thing. I'm not
that low."
He was out of breath. No doubt, it was the longest speech he had made
in years. Perhaps his own voice sounded strange to him.
"You are not to leave this house, Tom, until you have promised," she
said firmly. All the time he was speaking, she had stood like a statue
before him, never taking her eyes from his distorted face.
"Oh, I'm not, eh? We'll see!"
"What are you going to do to Colonel Grand?"
"I'm going to--" he checked himself.
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