Shivering, he put his arm around her, seeking
solace, not love. This time she did not repulse him and, trustingly, as
a child confides to his mother, he depicted to her the suffering that
harrowed his life and made it a hell.
As she listened, indignation clouded her forehead, while rising tears of
anger and of love weighed down her lashes. She could bear the pitiful
sight no longer.
"Child," she cried, "do you know who your tormentor is?"
And like a flash the truth passed from her to him. A sudden intimation
told him what her words had still concealed.
"Don't! For Christ's sake, do not pronounce his name!" he sobbed. "Do
not breathe it. I could not endure it. I should go mad."
XXIV
Very quietly, with difficulty restraining her own emotion so as not to
excite him further, Ethel had related to Ernest the story of her
remarkable interview with Reginald Clarke. In the long silence that
ensued, the wings of his soul brushed against hers for the first time,
and Love by a thousand tender chains of common suffering welded their
beings into one.
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