For one exquisite moment he held her. The
violets at her bosom were crushed against his coat. Then she tore
herself away.
"You are mad," she cried. "It is my fault. Oh, let me go!"
"Never," he answered, passionately clasping at her hand. "Call yourself
by what name you will, I love you. If you are in trouble, let me help.
Let me go back to the house with you, and we will face it together,
whatever it may be. Come!"
She wrung her hands. The joy had all gone from her face.
"Oh, what have I done?" she moaned. "Don't you understand that I am an
impostor? The man down there is not my father. I--oh, let me go!"
She wrenched herself free. She stood away from him, her skirt gathered
up into her hand, prepared for flight.
"If you would really do me a kindness," she cried, "get Mr. Spencer to
stop his search for me. Tell him to forget that such a person ever
existed. And you, too! You must do the same. What I have done, I have
done of my own free will. I am my own mistress. I will not be interfered
with. Listen!"
She turned a white, intent face towards the house. Duncombe could hear
nothing for the roaring of the wind, but the girl's face was once more
convulsed with terror.
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