She was clinging to him with a rush
of piteous tears, and he was kneeling beside her, holding her fast
pressed against his heart, murmuring over her brokenly, passionately,
such words of tenderness as she had never heard from him before. When in
the end she lifted her face to kiss him, it was wet with tears other than
her own, and somehow that fact did more to ease her own distress than any
consolation he could find to offer.
She slipped her arm about his neck and pressed her cheek to his. "I'm
thankful I know," she told him tremulously. "Oh, Edward darling,
don't--don't keep anything from me ever again! If I'd only known sooner,
things might have been so different. I feel as if I have never known you
till now."
"Have you forgiven me?" he said, his grey head bent.
She turned her lips again to his. "My dear, of course--of course!"
And in a lower voice, "Will you--tell me about her? Did she mean very
much to you?"
His arm tightened about her. "My darling, it's nearly twenty-three years
ago that she died. Yes, I loved her. But I've never wanted her back. Her
life was such an inferno." He paused a moment, then as she was silent
went on more steadily.
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