I'm afraid I
couldn't make you feel how resolute I was, against any divulgence that
might lessen the gulf between me and the old unfortunate self. It seemed
better to wait till time should become my ally against my rival in your
heart. But to-night, when I saw again how firmly the rival--the old
Murray Davenport--was installed there; when I saw how much you
suffered--how much you would still suffer--from uncertainty about his
fate, I felt it was both futile and cruel to hold out."
"It _was_ cruel," said Florence. "I have suffered."
"Forgive me," he replied. "I didn't fully realize--I was too intent on
my own side of the case. To have let you suffer!--it was more than cruel.
I shall not forgive myself for that, at least."
She made no answer.
"And now that you know?" he asked, in a low voice, after a moment.
"It is so strange," she replied, coldly. "I can't tell what I think. You
are not the same. I can see now that you are he--in spite of all your
skill, I can see that."
He made a slight movement, as if to take her hand. But she drew back,
saying quickly:
"And yet you are not he."
"You are right," said Turl. "And it isn't as he that I would appear. I am
Francis Turl--"
"And Francis Turl is almost a stranger to me," she answered. "Oh, I see
now! Murray Davenport is indeed lost--more lost than ever. Your design
has been all too successful."
"It was _his_ design, remember," pleaded Turl. "And I am the result of
it--the result of his project, his wish, his knowledge and skill.
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