Now, I find you can.

When I read the papers this afternoon, at first I wanted to rush off to the police and tell them where he had been while the murder was being committed.

But I didn't know how long he had stopped in your house, and, besides--" "You would have dared to do that!" I broke in, the blood, angry blood, stinging my cheeks more hotly than it stung hers.
"It wasn't a question of daring," she answered.

"I thought of him more than of you; but I thought of you, too.

I knew that if I were in your place, no matter how much harm I might do to myself, I would confess that he had been in my house." "There are reasons why I can't tell that he was there," I said, trying to awe her by speaking coldly and proudly.