"
* * * * *
"What think you of that, Angela, for the letter of a she-cynic?"
"It is blotted with her tears. She wrote in sorrow, despairing of your
love."
"She managed to exist for a round dozen years without my love--or doubting
it--so long as she had her _cavaliere servante_. It was only when he
deserted her that she found life a burden. And now she has crossed the
Rubicon. She belongs to her age--the age of Kings' mistresses and light
women. And she will be happy, I dare swear, as they are. It is not an age
of tears. And when the fair Louise ran away to her Convent the other day,
in a passion of penitence, be sure she only went on purpose to be brought
back again. But now, sweet, say have I lied to you about the lady who was
once my wife?" he asked, pointing to the letter in her hand.
"And who is my sister to the end of time; my sister in Eternity: in
Purgatory or in Paradise. I cannot cast her off, though you may. I will set
out for Paris to-morrow, and bring her home, if I can, to the Manor. She
need trouble you no more. My husband and I can shelter and pity her."
"Your husband!"
"He will be my husband a fortnight hence."
"Never! Never, while I live to fling my body between you at the altar.
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