She saw at her side the gentle and melancholy
Plantagenet of her childhood.
'I cannot speak; I am agitated at meeting you,' she said with her
native frankness. 'It is so long since we have been alone; and, as you
say, all is so changed.'
'But are you changed, Venetia?' he said in a voice of emotion; 'for
all other change is nothing.'
'I meet you with pleasure,' she replied; 'I hear of your fame with
pride. You cannot suppose that it is possible I should cease to be
interested in your welfare.'
'Your mother does not meet me with pleasure; she hears of nothing
that has occurred to me with pride; your mother has ceased to take an
interest in my welfare; and why should you be unchanged?'
'You mistake my mother.'
'No, no,' replied Cadurcis, shaking his head, 'I have read her inmost
soul to-day. Your mother hates me; me, whom she once styled her son.
She was a mother once to me, and you were my sister. If I have lost
her heart, why have I not lost yours?'
'My heart, if you care for it, is unchanged,' said Venetia.
'O Venetia, whatever you may think, I never wanted the solace of a
sister's love more than I do at this moment.'
'I pledged my affection to you when we were children,' replied
Venetia; 'you have done nothing to forfeit it, and it is yours still.
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