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Warfield, Catherine A.

"Miriam Monfort A Novel"

"
"You are perfectly infatuated, Miss Monfort; I declare, I shall begin
to believe--"
"No, you shall not begin to believe any such, thing," I interrupted her,
smiling; "you are surely too sensible and just a woman to begin to
believe fallacies thus late in the day."
"Have it your own way," she said, sharply; "you always get the better of
me at last."
"Not always," I pursued, "or I should not be here, you know. It rests
with you to keep or let me go--"
"To ruin my child's husband! There, now! you have my life-secret," she
said, with a desperate gesture; "use it as you will."
I understood more than ever the hopelessness of my case from the moment
of that impulsive revelation, to which I made no answer.
"What is more," she said, huskily, "I, too, am watched; I never knew
this until two days ago: a negro man, an attendant of the house, an old
servant of your guardian's, I believe, guards the doors below, and
refuses to let me pass to and fro. Dinah, even, is employed to dog my
steps. This is not exactly what I bargained for; yet, in spite of all,
on her account I shall be faithful to the end." And for a time she
busied herself in that careful dusting of the ornaments of the chamber,
which seemed mechanical, so habitual was it to her sense of order and
tidiness.
Her hand was on the gold-emblazoned Bible, I remember, and her
party-colored bunch of plumes lifted above it, as if for immediate
action, when her arm fell heavily to her side, and she heaved a bitter
sigh, so deep, it sounded like a long-suppressed sob, rather, to my ear.


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