The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe, in Extracts from Her Diary

moved the hand on which his head rested, so that it hid his face. I saw nothing but the upper part of his figure at the table. Not a muscle of him moved. The fingers of the hand which supported his head were dented deep in his hair. They might have expressed hidden anger or hidden grief⁠—it was hard to say which⁠—there was no significant trembling in them. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to tell the secret of his thoughts at that moment⁠—the moment which was the crisis of his life and the crisis of hers. I was determined to make him declare himself, for Laura’s sake. “Sir Percival!” I interposed sharply, “have you nothing to say when my sister has said so much? More, in my opinion,” I added, my unlucky temper getting the better of me, “than any man alive, in your position, has a right to hear from her.” That last rash sentence opened a way for him by which to escape me if he chose, and he instantly took advantage of it. “Pardon me, Miss Halcombe,” he said, still keeping his hand over his face, “pardon me if I remind you that I have claimed no such right.” The few plain words which would have brought him back to the point from which he had wandered were just on my lips, when Laura checked me by speaking again. “I hope I have not made my painful acknowledgment in vain,” she continued. “I hope it has secured me your entire confidence in what I have still to say?”