The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe

you . Give me the letter.’ He stepped close up to me⁠—I was alone with him, Marian⁠—what could I do?⁠—I gave him the letter.” “What did he say when you gave it to him?” “At first he said nothing. He took me by the arm, and led me out of the boathouse, and looked about him on all sides, as if he was afraid of our being seen or heard. Then he clasped his hand fast round my arm, and whispered to me, ‘What did Anne Catherick say to you yesterday? I insist on hearing every word, from first to last.’ ” “Did you tell him?” “I was alone with him, Marian⁠—his cruel hand was bruising my arm⁠—what could I do?” “Is the mark on your arm still? Let me see it.” “Why do you want to see it?” “I want to see it, Laura, because our endurance must end, and our resistance must begin today. That mark is a weapon to strike him with. Let me see it now⁠—I may have to swear to it at some future time.” “Oh, Marian, don’t look so⁠—don’t talk so! It doesn’t hurt me now!” “Let me see it!” She showed me the marks. I was past grieving over them, past crying over them, past shuddering over them. They say we are either better than men, or worse. If the