All former scenes, to this, were but as the preface to the
book. All she knew and all she dreaded, all her suspicions, all her
certainties, all her fears, were poured forth in painful profusion. This
night was to decide her fate. She threw herself on his mercy, if he had
forgotten his love. Out dashed all those arguments, all those
appeals, all those assertions, which they say are usual under these
circumstances. She was a woman; he was a man. She had staked her
happiness on this venture; he had a thousand cards to play. Love, and
first love, with her, as with all women, was everything; he and all men,
at the worst, had a thousand resources. He might plunge into politics,
he might game, he might fight, he might ruin himself in innumerable
ways, but she could only ruin herself in one. Miserable woman! Miserable
sex! She had given him her all. She knew it was little: would she had
more! She knew she was unworthy of him: would she were not! She did not
ask him to sacrifice himself to her: she could not expect it; she did
not even desire it. Only, she thought he ought to know exactly the state
of affairs and of consequences, and that certainly if they were parted,
which assuredly they would be, most decidedly she would droop, and fade,
and die.
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