Owing to this he had lost her at the first; now it
seemed to prevent him from repairing the loss. In spite of all that they
had in common, in spite of the strong attraction she felt towards him and
of the love he bore her, there was always, as she had said once, at last
a break somewhere, some solution in the chain of sympathy that should
have bound them together. But he would not admit this, and chose to see
the only barrier between them in the man who was ruining her life.
"You'd be yourself again if only you could get away from him," he
murmured resentfully.
"Perhaps; I never shall, though." She added, laughing a little, "Neither
will you. I've made you an accomplice, you're bound to a guilty silence
now." Then, growing grave, she leant towards him. "Don't look like that,"
she said, "pray, pray, pray don't. I haven't spoilt your life as well as
my own? No, you mustn't tell me that." Her voice grew very tender and
low. "But I can say almost all you want. I wish I had loved you, I wish I
had married you. Oh, how I wish it! I should have been happy, I think,
and I know I--I shouldn't have had to live as I do now and do the things
I have to do now.
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