`` She married Charlie Moore of East Exeter , and has been living there ever since . '' `` Then , '' said Gilbert , laying hold of the one solid fact that loomed out of the mist of his confused understanding , `` why did she keep on writing letters to me after she was married ? '' `` She never wrote to you at all . It was I that wrote the letters . '' Gilbert looked at Alma doubtfully . Was she crazy ? There was something odd about her , now that he noticed , as she stood rigidly there , with that queer red spot on her face , a strange fire in her eyes , and that weird reflection from the maple enveloping her like an immaterial flame . `` I do n't understand , '' he said helplessly . Still standing there , Alma told the whole story , giving full explanations , but no excuses . She told it clearly and simply , for she had often pictured this scene to herself and thought out what she must say . Her memory worked automatically , and her tongue obeyed it promptly . To herself she seemed like a machine , talking mechanically , while her soul stood on one side and listened . When she had finished there was a silence lasting perhaps ten seconds . To Alma it seemed like hours . Would Gilbert overwhelm her with angry reproaches , or would he simply rise up and leave her in unutterable contempt ? It was the most tragic moment of her life , and her whole personality was strung up to meet it and withstand it . `` Well , they were good letters , anyhow , '' said Gilbert finally ; `` interesting letters , '' he added , as if by way of a meditative afterthought . It was so anti-climactic that Alma broke into an hysterical giggle , cut short by a sob . She dropped into a chair by the table and flung her hands over her face , laughing and sobbing softly to herself . Gilbert rose and walked to the door , where he stood with his back to her until she regained her self-control .
Then he turned and XXXXX down at her quizzically .
enveloping flung laughing laying listened looked say standing strung thought