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Margret Howth, a Story of To-day by Rebecca Harding Davis
page 114 of 217 (52%)

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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