They made a striking picture, and the
blue, beauty-loving eyes of the spectator looked longingly upon it.
The dark lovely face bent forward seemed more childish in its soft
curves since the capacity to love and suffer had wakened in her
breast. Her sweet lips trembled with repressed feeling.
"Wanda," said Edward, "don't waste caresses on that unthankful brute.
He doesn't need them."
She looked at him with wide startled eyes. "Come to _me_," he breathed
in resistless accents. "Ah, Wanda, you pitied me once when I had a
scratch on my hand. Can not you pity me now when I have a sword in my
heart?"
It was not love that called her; it was the despairing cry of one who
was perishing to be loved. She rose after a moment, steadying herself
by a hand on the chair-back, for her beautiful frame was swayed by
irresolution, love, shame and pride. Slowly, very slowly, with the
sweet uncertain footsteps of a baby that fears to tread the little
distance between itself and the waiting irresistible arms of love, she
came towards him. It seemed at every moment that she must break away
and fly, as she had flown from him in the woods of summer.
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