It was the first time that he had kissed her, or made any outward
demonstration of his great love since their betrothal.
Violet broke away from him, with a low, thrilling cry of anguish, and
sank, pale and quivering in every nerve, into the chair from which she
had just arisen.
That caress had recalled the last passionate kiss of farewell that
Wallace had given her just before the steamer left its pier in New York,
while it had also revealed to her the fact that he would always be more
to her, even though he were dead, than Lord Cameron, with all his love,
his goodness, and generosity, could ever hope to be, living.
He was deeply hurt, however, by this repulse and her cry of despair. He
stood for a moment looking down upon her, mingled pain and remorse for
what he had done plainly written on his face. Then he said, in a
repressed tone:
"Forgive me, Violet; I will try not to wound you thus again."
She threw out her hand to him with an appealing gesture,
conscience-smitten, for his tone plainly told her how deeply she had
hurt him.
"Forgive me," she said, contritely, a little sob pointing her words.
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