She was no better than poor Mary Gibson whom Aunt
Clara had with harshness turned from her house.
She--a lady!--a proud English lady! She covered her face with her
hands. What had her anguish of mind been before, when compared with
this! She had suffered hurt to her pride the day after he had kissed
her, but now that seemed as nothing balanced with such hideous
disgrace.
She moaned and rocked herself to and fro. Wild thoughts came--where was
the pistol? She would end her life.
She looked everywhere, but it was gone.
Presently she crouched down in a corner like a cowed dog, too utterly
overcome with shame and despair to move.
And there she still was when Gritzko entered the room.
She looked up at him piteously, and with unconscious instinct tried to
pull together her torn blouse.
In a flash he saw what she thought, and one of those strange shades in
his character made him come to a resolve. Not until she should lie
willingly in his arms--herself given by love--should he tell her her
belief was false.
He advanced up the room with a grave quiet face. His expression was
inscrutable. She could read nothing from his look. Her sick imagination
told her he was thus serene because he had won, and she covered her
face with her hands, while her cheeks flamed, and she sobbed.
Her weeping hurt him--he nearly relented--but
as he came near she looked up.
Pages:
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194