I knew you would come, Stephen. You
did before."
He winced,--the more that her voice was so clear of pain.
"Why should I come? To show you what sort of a heart I have sold
for money? Why, you think you know, little Margret. You can
reckon up its deformity, its worthlessness, on your cool fingers.
You could tell the serene and gracious lady who is chaffering for
it what a bargain she has made,--that there is not in it one
spark of manly honour or true love. Don't venture too near it in
your coldness and prudence. It has tiger passions I will not
answer for. Give me your hand, and feel how it pants like a
hungry fiend. It will have food, Margret."
She drew away the hand he grasped, and stood back in the shadow.
"What is it to me?"--in the same measured voice.
Holmes wiped the cold drops from his forehead, a sort of shudder
in his powerful frame. He stood a moment looking into the fire,
his head dropped on his arm.
"Let it be so," he said at last, quietly. "The worn old heart
can gnaw on itself a little longer. I have no mind to whimper
over pain."
Something that she saw on the dark sardonic face, as the red
gleams lighted it, made her start convulsively, as if she would
go to him; then controlling herself, she stood silent. He had
not seen the movement,--or, if he saw, did not heed it. He did
not care to tame her now. The firelight flashed and darkened,
the crackling wood breaking the dead silence of the room.
"It does not matter," he said, raising his head, laying his arm
over his strong chest unconsciously, as if to shut in all
complaint.
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