So they looked at each other in passionate anguish. No words passed--of
what avail were they? Each read the heart of the other. They knew that
they must part. Then the closely-written pages fell to the ground, and
Madaline's hands clasped each other in helpless anguish. The golden head
fell forward on her breast. He noticed that in her agitation and sorrow
she did not cling to him as she had clung before--that she did not even
touch him. She seemed by instinct to understand that she was his wife
now in name only.
So for some minutes they sat, while the sunset glowed in the west. He
was the first to speak.
"My dear Madaline," he said, "my poor wife"--his voice seemed to startle
her into new life and new pain--"I would rather have died than have
given you this pain."
"I know it--I am sure of it," she said, "but, oh, Norman, how can I
release you?"
"There is happily no question about that," he answered.
He saw her rise from her seat and stretch out her arms.
"What have I done," she cried, "that I must suffer so cruelly? What have
I done?"
"Madaline," said Lord Arleigh, "I do not think that so cruel a fate has
ever befallen any one as has befallen us.
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