With a supreme effort, for she was
so weak as to be almost powerless, she clasped her hands about his
neck and pressed her to him, or he pressed her. The embrace lasted
but a moment and her arms fell again like lead.
"You know the truth at last, Giovanni," she said, feebly. "You
know that I am innocent or you would not--"
He did not know whether her voice failed her from weakness, or
whether she was hesitating. He felt as though she had driven a
sharp weapon into his breast by recalling all that separated them.
He drew back a little, and his face darkened.
What could he do? She was dying and it would be diabolically cruel
to undeceive her. In that moment he would have given his soul to
be able to lie, to put on again the expression that was in his
face when he had kissed her a moment before. But the suffering of
which she reminded him was too great, the sin too enormous, and
though he tried bravely he could not succeed. But he made the
effort. He tried to smile, and the attempt was horrible. He spoke,
but there was no life in his words.
"Yes, dear," he said, though the words choked him like hot dust,
"I know it was all a mistake. How can I ever ask your
forgiveness?"
Corona saw that it was not the truth, and with a despairing cry
she turned away and hid her face in the pillow.
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