Now I love so much I can not let you stay! I reckon this is
love. I'm not ashamed to tell it. I'm not afraid to justify it.
And I can't help it."
It was any sort of time, a moment, an hour, before there was spoken
speech between them after that. At last they both heard her voice.
"Now, you begin to pay. I am glad. I am glad."
"Then it is your revenge? Very well. You have it."
"No, no! You must not say that. Believe me, I want you to feel
how--how much I admire--no, wait,--how much I admire any man who
could show your courage. It's not revenge, it's not vanity--"
He waited, his soul in his eyes, hoping for more than this; but she
fell silent again.
"Then it is the end," he said.
He held up his fingers, scarred to the bone.
"That's where I bruised my hands when I clenched on the table,
yonder. You wouldn't think it, maybe, but I love pictures. I've
spent a lot of time looking for them and at them. I remember one
collection--many pictures of the martyrs, horrors in art,
nightmares.
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