The excuse was valid. But perfect love would find a way. It
should need no excuse.
There was something wrong. She realized it now with increasing agony.
Unable to endure the strain she sent for Socola.
Their meeting was awkward. She made no effort to apologize or smooth
things over. Her attitude was instinctive. She gave her feelings full
rein.
She fixed on him a steady searching gaze.
"It's useless for me to try to pretend, my love. There's something wrong
between us."
"Your mind has been poisoned," was the quick, serious answer. "Thoughts
are things. They have the power to kill or give life. A poisonous idea
has been planted in your soul. It's killing your love for me. I feel
it--and I'm helpless."
"You can cast it out," she answered tenderly.
"How?"
"Tell me frankly and honestly the whole story of your life--"
"You believe me an impostor?"
"I love you--"
"And that is not enough?"
"No. Make suspicion impossible. You can do this--if you are innocent as
I believe you are--"
She paused and a sob caught her voice.
"Oh, my love, it's killing me--I can neither eat nor sleep. Show me that
such a thing is impossible--"
He took her hand.
"How foolish, my own, to ask this of me--we love right or wrong.
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