I never--"
Livingstone interrupted her, with a curl of contempt on his lip.
"Stop, I beg of you. It is useless to stoop lower than you have done
already. I have Willis's written confession here. Ah! I know your
talents too well to accuse you without material proof."
She raised her head, haughtily enough now. There was something Spartan
about that girl. She had such an utter recklessness of exposure--it was
in failure that she felt the shame.
"At least _you_ ought not to reproach me. You might guess my motive--my
only one--without forcing me to confess it. Have I not gratified your
pride enough already?"
"You know that is not the question," Guy answered, gravely. "Yet you are
half right. I could not reproach you for any fair, honest move. In much,
I own myself more guilty than you. But this is very different. Miss
Bellasys, you must have distrusted greatly your own powers of
fascination before you stooped to such cruel treachery."
"I did not know what I was doing," she whispered; "I did not know she
was dying. Ah! Guy, have pity!"
"But you knew it might kill her to find her letter--such a
letter--unanswered. You knew what she must have suffered before she
wrote it.
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