An Imperative Duty. William Dean Howells

       "Well, perhaps," he suggested, half jocosely," the trouble will disappear when you've had sleep enough."

       "You know very well," she answered, "that it won't--that what you say is simply impossible. I remember some things, you said that night when we talked so long together, and I know that you are inclined to confound the moral and the physical, as all doctors are."

       Olney would have liked to say, "I wish, my dear lady, you wouldn't confound the sane and insane in the way you do." But he silently submitted, and let her go on.

       "That made me dislike you; but I can't say it made me distrust you. I think that if you had been an untruthful person you would have concealed your point of view from me."

       Olney could not say he might not have thought it worth while to do that. On the contrary, he had a sort of compassion for the lofty superiority of a woman who so obviously felt her dependence upon him, and was arming herself in all her pride for her abasement before him. He knew that she was longing to tell him what was on her mind, and would probably not end till she had done it. He did not feel that he had the right to prevent her doing that, and he smiled passively in saying, "I couldn't advise you to trust me too far."