Only, the hate for those we have wronged is
most enduring.' That isn't half bad, Dick. How do you think of all
these things?"
She crossed over to the window to cool her hot face. She, too, heard
the voices of the night; not as the poet hears them, but as one in
pain. "He never loved me!" she murmured, so softly that even the
sparrows in the vine heard her not. And bitter indeed was the pain.
But of what use to struggle, or to sigh, or vainly to regret? As
things are written, so must they be read. She readily held him
guiltless; what she regretted most deeply was the lack of power to
have him and to hold him. Long before, she had realized the
hopelessness of it all. Knowing that he drank from the cup of
dissipation, she had even sought to hold him in contempt; but to her
he had never ceased to be a gentleman, tender, manly and kind. It is
contempt that casts the first spadeful in the grave of love.
"Come, girl," he said, going to her side; "you have something to tell
me. What is it?"
She turned to find his hand outstretched and a friendly look in his
eyes. Impulsively she gave him both her hands.
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