But I did not tell her
that I had met Winifred on the sands. Excited as I was, I had the
presence of mind not to tell her that.
As I proceeded with my narrative, with my mother sitting by my
bedside, a look of horror, then a look of loathing, then a look of
scorn, swept over her face. I knew that the horror was of the
sacrilege. I knew that the loathing and the haughty scorn expressed
her feeling towards the despoiler--the father of her whose cause I
might have to plead; and I began to wish from the bottom of my heart
that I had not taken her into my confidence. When I got to the
finding of Tom's body, and the look of terror stamped upon his face,
a new expression broke over hers--an expression of triumphant hate
that was fearful.
'Thank God at least for that!' she said. Then she murmured, 'But that
does not atone.'
Ah! how I regretted now that I had consulted her on a subject where
her proud imperious nature must be so deeply disturbed. But it was
too late to retreat.
'Henry,' she said, 'this is a shocking story you tell me.
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