Woburn had broken down the door, and stood torn
and breathless in the breach.
"Oh!" she gasped, pressing closer to the wall.
"Don't be frightened," he said; "I saw what you were going to do and I had
to stop you."
She looked at him for a moment in silence, and he saw the terrified
flutter of her breast; then she said, "No one can stop me for long. And
besides, what right have you--"
"Every one has the right to prevent a crime," he returned, the sound of
the last word sending the blood to his forehead.
"I deny it," she said passionately. "Every one who has tried to live and
failed has the right to die."
"Failed in what?"
"In everything!" she replied. They stood looking at each other in silence.
At length he advanced a few steps.
"You've no right to say you've failed," he said, "while you have breath to
try again." He drew the revolver from her hand.
"Try again--try again? I tell you I've tried seventy times seven!"
"What have you tried?"
She looked at him with a certain dignity.
"I don't know," she said, "that you've any right to question me--or to be
in this room at all--" and suddenly she burst into tears.
The discrepancy between her words and action struck the chord which, in a
man's heart, always responds to the touch of feminine unreason. She
dropped into the nearest chair, hiding her face in her hands, while Woburn
watched the course of her weeping.
At last she lifted her head, looking up between drenched lashes.
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