"_The woman I once loved_"--Cara clenched her hands, and bit back the cry
of pain which fought for utterance. For an instant she felt sick with
pain--as though some one had turned a knife in a raw wound. Then, with an
effort, she regained her self-control.
"Thank you," she said gently. "But no one could have helped me--least of
all you, even had you been in England."
They fell silent for a while. Eliot stood staring out across the
moon-flecked waters, and in the silver radiance which made the night almost
as light as day Cara could see the harsh lines which the years had graved
upon his, face, the grim closing of the lips, and the weariness that lay in
his eyes. Half timidly she laid her hand on his arm.
"I wish I could give you back your happiness," she said unevenly.
He turned and looked at her, and now there was neither pity nor compassion
in his gaze--only that hardness of granite with which she was all too
familiar.
"Unfortunately, that's out of your power," he said coldly. "You only had
power to wreck it."
He glanced down distastefully at the hand on his sleeve, and she withdrew
it hastily. But, with a sudden strength of purpose, born of her infinite
longing to repair the harm she had done, she persisted, daring his anger.
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