"
"You knew it all, Harry," she whispered.
"But I want to hear it. Oh, Florence, Florence, I do not think you can
understand how completely I am beyond myself with joy. I cannot dance
again, and will not. Oh, my wife, my wife!"
"Hush!" said Florence, afraid that the very walls might hear the sound
of Harry's words.
"What does it signify though all the world knew it?"
"Oh yes."
"That I should have been so fortunate! That is what I cannot understand.
Poor Mountjoy! I do feel for him. That he should have had the start of
me so long, and have done nothing!"
"Nothing," whispered Florence.
"And I have done everything. I am so proud of myself that I think I must
look almost like a hero."
They had now got to the extremity of the room near an open window, and
Florence found that she was able to say one word. "You are my hero." The
sound of this nearly drove him mad with joy. He forgot all his troubles.
Prodgers, the policeman, Augustus Scarborough, and that fellow whom he
hated so much, Septimus Jones;--what were they all to him now? He had set
his mind upon one thing of value, and he had got it. Florence had
promised to be his, and he was sure that she would never break her word
to him. But he felt that for the full enjoyment of his triumph he must
be alone somewhere with Florence for five minutes.
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