The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe

the sad position in which my sister is placed. She spoke while she was smarting under the insult and injustice inflicted on her by her husband, and she was not herself when she said those rash words. May I hope that they will be considerately and generously forgiven?” “Most assuredly,” said the Count’s quiet voice behind me. He had stolen on us with his noiseless tread and his book in his hand from the library. “When Lady Glyde said those hasty words,” he went on, “she did me an injustice which I lament⁠—and forgive. Let us never return to the subject, Miss Halcombe; let us all comfortably combine to forget it from this moment.” “You are very kind,” I said, “you relieve me inexpressibly.” I tried to continue, but his eyes were on me; his deadly smile that hides everything was set, hard, and unwavering on his broad, smooth face. My distrust of his unfathomable falseness, my sense of my own degradation in stooping to conciliate his wife and himself, so disturbed and confused me, that the next words failed on my lips, and I stood there in silence. “I beg you on my knees to say no more, Miss Halcombe⁠—I am truly shocked that you should have thought it necessary to say so much.” With that polite speech he took my hand⁠—oh, how I despise myself! oh, how little comfort there is even in knowing that I submitted to it for Laura’s sake!⁠—he took my hand and put it to his poisonous lips. Never did I know all my horror of him till then. That innocent familiarity turned my blood as if it had been the vilest insult that a man could offer me. Yet I