"What do you
think of it?"
"Only a wretch, an enemy of yours could have written it. Who can it have
been?" Her eyes were ablaze and her voice trembled with anger.
"I wrote it," he said.
He did not dare to look at her for a few seconds. Then, with a flimsy mask
of pretended calmness only the more clearly revealing self-contempt and
cowardice, he faced her amazed eyes, her pale cheeks, her parted lips--and
dropped his gaze to the floor.
"You?" she whispered. "You?"
"Yes, I."
She sat so still that he reached over and touched her hand. It was cold.
She shivered and drew it away. They were silent for a long time--several
minutes. She was looking at his face. It was old and sad and
feeble--pitiful, contemptible. She had never seen those lines of weakness
about his mouth before. She had never before noted that his features had
lost the expression of exalted character, the light of free and independent
manhood which made her look again the first time she saw him. When had the
man she loved departed? When had the new man come? How long had she been
giving herself to a stranger--and _such_ a stranger?
"Yes--I," he repeated. "I have come over to your side." He laughed and she
shivered again. "Well--what do you think?"
"Think?--I?--Oh, I think----"
She burst into tears, flung herself down at his feet and buried her head in
his lap.
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