What
was he to say to her? How was he to tell her? While he showered kisses
on her he was asking himself these questions. When she found out--when
he should confess to her the whole truth--she would leave him again.
Yet he did not understand the nature of the woman who loves. He held
her in his arms; his kisses pleaded for him; they mastered her--she was
ready to believe, to accept, to surrender even her truth and honesty;
and she was ready, though she knew it not, to become the accomplice of
a crime. Rather than leave her husband again, she would do everything.
Yet, Lord Harry felt there was one reservation: he might confess
everything, except the murder of the Dane. No word of confession had
passed the doctor's lips, yet he knew too well that the man had been
murdered; and, so far as the man had been chosen for his resemblance to
himself, that was perfectly useless, because the resemblance, though
striking at the first, had been gradually disappearing as the man Oxbye
grew better; and was now, as we have seen, wholly lost after death.
"I have a great deal--a great deal--to tell you, dear," said the
husband, holding both her hands tenderly. "You will have to be very
patient with me.
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