Suppose she went home and told Wilbur.

Suppose she said, "I did not write that book.

My friend, Annie Eustace, wrote it.

I am a thief, and worse than a thief." She knew just how he would look at her, his wife, his Margaret, who had never done wrong in his eyes.

For the first time in her life she was afraid, and yet how could she live and bear such torture and not confess?
Confession would be like a person ill unto death, giving up, and seeking the peace of a sick chamber and the rest of bed and the care of a physician.