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Have not actors wept, as they pourtrayed imagined passion? A more intense
feeling of the reality of fiction possessed Raymond. He spoke with pride;
he felt injured. Perdita looked up; she saw his angry glance; his hand was
on the lock of the door. She started up, she threw herself on his neck, she
gasped and sobbed; he took her hand, and leading her to the sofa, sat down
near her. Her head fell on his shoulder, she trembled, alternate changes of
fire and ice ran through her limbs: observing her emotion he spoke with
softened accents:
"The blow is given. I will not part from you in anger;--I owe you too
much. I owe you six years of unalloyed happiness. But they are passed. I
will not live the mark of suspicion, the object of jealousy. I love you too
well. In an eternal separation only can either of us hope for dignity and
propriety of action. We shall not then be degraded from our true
characters. Faith and devotion have hitherto been the essence of our
intercourse;--these lost, let us not cling to the seedless husk of life,
the unkernelled shell. You have your child, your brother, Idris, Adrian"--
"And you," cried Perdita, "the writer of that letter."
Uncontrollable indignation flashed from the eyes of Raymond. He knew that
this accusation at least was false. "Entertain this belief," he cried, "hug
it to your heart--make it a pillow to your head, an opiate for your eyes
--I am content. But, by the God that made me, hell is not more false than
the word you have spoken!"
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