And Edward
has lost his pow--"
He broke off; stopped by the look of angry reproach from his wife, cast
on him for the first time in their married life. He took her hand and
bent down to her: fervent love, if ever she read it, in his eyes and
tones.
"Forgive me, Anne; you are feeling this."
"Why do you throw these slights on my children? Why are you not more
just?"
"I do not intend to slight our children, Anne, Heaven knows. But I--I
cannot punish Edward."
"Why did you ever make me your wife?" sighed Lady Hartledon, drawing her
hand away.
His poor assumption of unconcern was leaving him quickly; his face was
changing to one of bitter sorrow.
"When I married you," she resumed, "I had reason to hope that should
children be born to us, you would love them equally with your first;
I had a right to hope it. What have I done that--"
"Stay, Anne! I can bear anything better than reproach from you."
"What have I and my children done to you, I was about to ask, that you
take this aversion to them? lavishing all your love on the others and
upon them only injustice?"
Val bent down, agitation in his face and voice.
"Hush, Anne! you don't know. The danger is that I should love your
children better, far better than Maude's. It might be so if I did not
guard against it."
"I cannot understand you," she exclaimed.
"Unfortunately, I understand myself only too well.
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