"Philippa, forgive me," he repeated. "If you only knew how it hurts
to see you like this! Yet I must speak. There is just once in
every man's lifetime when he must tell the truth. That time has
come with me--I love you."
"So does my husband," she murmured.
"I will only remind you, then, that he shows it in strange fashion,"
Lessingham continued. "He sets your wishes at defiance. He who
should be an example in a small place like this, is only an object
of contempt in the neighbourhood. Even I, who have only lived here
for so short a time, have caught the burden of what people say."
Philippa wiped her eyes.
"Please, do you mind," she begged, "not saying anything more about
Henry. You are only reminding me of things which I try all the
time to forget."
"Believe me," Lessingham answered wistfully, "I am only too content
to ignore him, to forget that he exists, to remember only that you
are the woman who has changed my life."
Philippa looked at him in something like dismay, rather like a child
who has started an engine which she has no idea how to stop.
"But you must not--you must not talk to me like this!"
His hand closed upon hers. It lay in his grasp, unyielding, cold,
yet passive.
"Why not?" he whispered. "I have the one unalterable right, and I
am willing to pay the great price.
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