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The perfect confidence that subsisted between Perdita and him, rendered
every communication common between them. They opened each other's letters,
even as, until now, the inmost fold of the heart of each was disclosed to
the other. A letter came unawares, Perdita read it. Had it contained
confirmation, she must have been annihilated. As it was, trembling, cold,
and pale, she sought Raymond. He was alone, examining some petitions lately
presented. She entered silently, sat on a sofa opposite to him, and gazed
on him with a look of such despair, that wildest shrieks and dire moans
would have been tame exhibitions of misery, compared to the living
incarnation of the thing itself exhibited by her.
At first he did not take his eyes from the papers; when he raised them, he
was struck by the wretchedness manifest on her altered cheek; for a moment
he forgot his own acts and fears, and asked with consternation--"Dearest
girl, what is the matter; what has happened?"
"Nothing," she replied at first; "and yet not so," she continued, hurrying
on in her speech; "you have secrets, Raymond; where have you been lately,
whom have you seen, what do you conceal from me?--why am I banished from
your confidence? Yet this is not it--I do not intend to entrap you with
questions--one will suffice--am I completely a wretch?"
With trembling hand she gave him the paper, and sat white and motionless
looking at him while he read it. He recognised the hand-writing of Evadne,
and the colour mounted in his cheeks. With lightning-speed he conceived the
contents of the letter; all was now cast on one die; falsehood and artifice
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