Margret Howth, a Story of To-day by Rebecca Harding Davis
page 114 of 217 (52%)
page 114 of 217 (52%)
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She did not speak; stood quite quiet, her head bent on her breast. His conscience was clear now. But he almost wished he had not said it, she was such a weak, sickly thing. She sat down at last, burying her face in her hands, with a shivering sob. He dared not trust him self to speak again. "I am not proud,--as a woman ought to be," she said, wearily, when he wiped her clammy forehead. "You loved me, then?" he whispered. Her face flashed at the unmanly triumph; her puny frame started up, away from him. "I did love you, Stephen. I did love you,-- as you might be, not as you are,--not with those inhuman eyes. I do understand you,-- I do. I know you for a better man than you know yourself this night." She turned to go. He put his hand on her arm; something we have never seen on his face struggled up,--the better soul that she knew. "Come back," he said, hoarsely; "don't leave me with myself. Come back, Margret." She did not come; stood leaning, her sudden strength gone, against the broken wall. There was a heavy silence. The night throbbed slow about them. Some late bird rose from the sedges of |
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