Then she hid it out of sight and sat down again.

The action had been almost unconscious, but now she thought about it, and she did not like what she had done.

Angry with him and with herself, she was yet calm enough to ask why she could not bear the sight of the volume on the table.

Was it possible she had cared enough about her friendship for the Doctor to be seriously distressed at its sudden termination?
She hardly knew--perhaps so.

So many men had made love to her, none had ever before seemed to be a friend.
The weary and hard-worked little sentiment that we call conscience spoke up.