"Have I satisfied you that her opportunity is still before her?"
he asked. "Do you feel, as I feel, that she has _not_ done with
hope?"
"You have satisfied me that the world holds no truer friend to
her than you," Mercy answered, gently and gratefully. "She shall
prove herself worthy of your generous confidence in her. She
shall show you yet that you have not spoken in vain."
Still inevitably failing to understand her, he led the way to the
door.
"Don't waste the precious time," he said. "Don't leave her
cruelly to herself. If you can't go to her, let me go as your
messenger, in your place."
She stopped him by a gesture. He took a step back into the room,
and paused, observing with surprise that she made no attempt to
move from the chair that she occupied.
"Stay here," she said to him, in suddenly altered tones.
"Pardon me, "he rejoined, "I don't understand you."
"You will understand me directly. Give me a little time."
He still lingered near the door, with his eyes fixed inquiringly
on her. A man of a lower nature than his, or a man believing in
Mercy less devotedly than he believed, would now have felt his
first suspicion of her.
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