"Never! . . . I loved him too
well!"
Ulrika's head dropped. "He was my son!" she said.
There was a silence of complete astonishment. Ulrika paused--then, as no
one uttered a word, she looked up boldly, and spoke with a sort of
desperate determination.
"You see you have nothing to thank me for," she went on, addressing
herself to Sir Philip, while Thelma, leaning back on her pillows, and
holding Britta's hand, regarded her with a new and amazed interest.
"Perhaps, if you had known what sort of a woman I am, you might not have
liked me to come near--_her_." And she motioned towards Thelma. "When I
was young--long ago--I loved--" she laughed bitterly. "It seems a
strange thing to say, does it not? Let it pass--the story of my love, my
sin and shame, need not be told here! But Sigurd was my child--born in
an evil hour--and I--I strove to kill him at his birth."
Thelma uttered a faint cry of horror. Ulrika turned an imploring gaze
upon her.
"Don't hate me!" she said, her voice trembling.
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