known how to exercise it. I trace these lines, self-
distrustfully, with the shadows of after-events darkening the very
paper I write on; and still I say, what could I do?

What I did do, was to try and gain time by questioning her. "Are
you sure that your friend in London will receive you at such a
late hour as this?" I said.

"Quite sure. Only say you will let me leave you when and how I
please--only say you won't interfere with me. Will you promise?"

As she repeated the words for the third time, she came close to me
and laid her hand, with a sudden gentle stealthiness, on my bosom--
a thin hand; a cold hand (when I removed it with mine) even on
that sultry night. Remember that I was young; remember that the
hand which touched me was a woman's.

"Will you promise?"

"Yes."

One word! The little familiar word that is on everybody's lips,
every hour in the day. Oh me! and I tremble, now, when I write
it.

We set our faces towards London, and walked on together in the
first still hour of the new day--I, and this woman, whose name,
whose character, whose story, whose objects in life, whose very
presence by my side, at that moment, were fathomless mysteries to
me. It was like a dream. Was I Walter Hartright? Was this the