"Stay then; on two conditions. First, that you promise me sacredly that
you will not disclose to Maltravers, without my consent, that you have
seen this letter. Think not I fear his anger. No! but in the mortal
encounter that must ensue, if you thus betray me, your character would
be lowered in the world's eyes, and even I (my excuse unknown) might not
appear to have acted with honour in obeying your desire, and warning
you, while there is yet time, of bartering love for avarice. Promise
me."

"I do, I do most solemnly."

"Secondly, assure me that you will not ask to keep the letter, but will
immediately restore it to me."

"I promise it. Now then."

"Take the letter."

Florence seized and rapidly read the fatal and garbled document: her
brain was dizzy, her eyes clouded, her ears rang as with the sound of
water, she was sick and giddy with emotion; but she read enough. This
letter was written, then, in answer to Castruccio's of last night; it
avowed dislike of her character; it denied the sincerity of her love; it
more than hinted the mercenary nature of his own feelings. Yes, even
there, where she had garnered up her heart, she was not Florence, the
lovely and beloved woman; but Florence, the wealthy and high-born
heiress. The world which she had built upon the faith and heart of
Maltravers crumbled away at her feet. The letter dropped from her
hands; her whole form seemed to shrink and shrivel up; her teeth were
set, and her cheek was as white as marble.