"Yes."
"Don't you despise a woman like me?"
Arnold's heart went back, at that dreadful question, to the one woman
who was eternally sacred to him--to the woman from whose bosom he had
drawn the breath of life.
"Does the man live," he said, "who can think of his mother--and despise
women?"
That answer set the prisoned misery in her free. She gave him her
hand--she faintly thanked him. The merciful tears came to her at last.
Arnold rose, and turned away to the window in despair. "I mean well," he
said. "And yet I only distress her!"
She heard him, and straggled to compose herself "No," she answered, "you
comfort me. Don't mind my crying--I'm the better for it." She looked
round at him gratefully. "I won't distress you, Mr. Brinkworth. I ought
to thank you--and I do. Come back or I shall think you are angry with
me." Arnold went back to her. She gave him her hand once more. "One
doesn't understand people all at once," she said, simply. "I thought you
were like other men--I didn't know till to-day how kind you could be.
Did you walk here?" she added, suddenly, with an effort to change
the subject. "Are you tired? I have not been kindly received at this
place--but I'm sure I may offer you whatever the inn affords.
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