Some mysterious sympathy,
passing from his hand to hers, seemed to tell her what was in his mind.
She snatched her hand away, and suddenly looked up at him.
The tears were in her eyes. She said nothing; she let her eyes
speak for her. They warned him--without anger, without unkindness--
but still they warned him to press her no further that day.
'Only tell me that I am forgiven,' he said, as he rose from the sofa.
'Yes,' she answered quietly, 'you are forgiven.'
'I have not lowered myself in your estimation, Agnes?'
'Oh, no!'
'Do you wish me to leave you?'
She rose, in her turn, from the sofa, and walked to her writing-table
before she replied. The unfinished letter which she had been writing
when Lady Montbarry interrupted her, lay open on the blotting-book.
As she looked at the letter, and then looked at Henry, the smile
that charmed everybody showed itself in her face.
'You must not go just yet,' she said: 'I have something to tell you.
I hardly know how to express it. The shortest way perhaps will be to let
you find it out for yourself. You have been speaking of my lonely
unprotected life here.
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