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Warfield, Catherine A.

"Miriam Monfort A Novel"


"As far as I am concerned, it was so eighteen months ago," I responded,
and the blood rushed indignantly to my brow. "Yet I hope," I added,
after a moment's hesitation, "that Claude may still marry and be happy."
"You are still vexed with that boy of mine, Miriam, I see that. Oh, you
are wrong, there! It was not for him, unfledged and inexperienced, to
weigh the precious diamond against the paste pretense! He could not see
you with the eyes of riper judgment and deep feeling accorded to those
who have studied life, and learned its loftiest lessons. Had he looked
through my eyes, Miriam--" (he was standing before me now, his arms
extended, his eyes blazing, his cheeks and lips strangely aglow), "he
would have seen you as you are, the rose, the ruby of the world." He
seized my hand impetuously, and pressed it to his lips, then rushed
wildly away. A moment later, he returned, silently. I was standing
before the silver cistern, I remember, washing away with my handkerchief
an invisible stain from my hand, child-fashion, a loathsome impress,
when I felt his audacious arms thrown suddenly around me, and his hot,
polluting kisses on my face.
"I love--I love you!" he hissed in my ear, "and sooner or later I will
possess you!"
Before I could strike him, spit upon him, strangle him with my
hands--the thief, the midnight robber, the slave of lust--he was gone
again.


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