A FOG IN SANTONE
“A little while ago you feared the future too much to even speak.”
“But for you; not for myself. Can you love me?”
She cast herself, wildly sobbing, upon his breast.
“Better than life—than Truth itself, than everything.”
“And my own past,” said Lorison, with a note of solicitude; “can you forgive and—”
“I answered you that,” she whispered, “when I told you I loved you.” She leaned away, and looked thoughtfully at him. “If I had not told you about myself, would you have—would you—”
“No,” he interrupted, “I would never have let you know I loved you. I would never have asked you this—Norah, will you be my wife?”
She wept again.
“Oh, believe me, I am good now—I am
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