'I don't know anything at the moment, except that your talking must be stopped somehow, if we are to get any farther with that letter to Mr. Marlowe. You shall not get out of it. Come!' She put the pen into his hand.
Trent looked at it with distaste. 'I warn you not to discourage my talking,' he said dejectedly. 'Believe me, men who don't talk are even worse to live with than men who do. O have a care of natures that are mute. I confess I'm shirking writing this thing. It is almost an indecency. It's mixing two moods to write the sort of letter I mean to write, and at the same time to be sitting in the same room with you.'
She led him to his abandoned chair before the escritoire and pushed him gently into it. 'Well, but please try. I want to see what you write, and I want it to go to him at once. You see, I would be contented enough to leave things as they are; but you say you must get at the truth, and if you must, I want it to be as soon as possible. Do it now–you know you can if you will–and I'll send it off the moment it's ready. Don't you ever feel that–the longing to get the worrying
