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Oh, to love her, protect and cherish her! To be
her slave, her guardian!
Love is strong when it has gone through the
fire of pain. He could not talk to Marienne of
separation and self-sacrifice now. He could not leave
her. He was indebted to her for his life. He would
have committed crimes for her sake.
He could not speak one sensible word, only
wept and kissed her, till the old nurse came to say
it was time he should go.
When he was gone, Marienne lay and thought
of his being so moved. “It is good to be loved like
that,” she thought.
Yes, it was good to be loved, but how was it
with herself? What did she feel? Oh, nothing, less
than nothing.
Was her love dead, or what had become of it?
Where had the child of her heart hidden itself?
Did it live, had it crept into the darkest corner of
her heart and lay there freezing under the gaze of
those icy eyes, frightened by that pale, sneering
laugh, half smothered under those hard, knotted
fingers?
“Oh, my love,” she sighed, “my heart’s child!
Do you live, or are you dead, as dead as my beauty?”
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