The figure turned, but in his
blindness and semi-consciousness he did not recognize it.
"I want to speak to you," he said, in the same guarded, half-whispered
voice. "Of course, I had no right to do it, but--"
His voice dropped and his eyelids closed.
Lankester advanced from the fire. He saw Marsham was not really awake,
and he dreaded to rouse him completely, lest it should only be to the
consciousness of pain. He stooped over him gently, and spoke his name.
"Yes," said Marsham, murmuring, without opening his eyes. "There's no
need for you to rub it in. I behaved like a beast, and Barrington--"
The voice became inarticulate again. The prostration and pallor of the
speaker, the feebleness of the tone--nothing could have been more
pitiful. An idea rushed upon Lankester. He again bent over the bed.
"Don't think of it any more," he said. "It's forgotten!"
A slight and ghastly smile showed on Marsham's lip as he lay with closed
eyes. "Forgotten! No, by Jove!" Then, after an uneasy movement, he said,
in a stronger and irritable voice, which seemed to come from another
region of consciousness:
"It would have been better to have burned the paper.
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