"Lucy, with one thing and another, my heart is half broken. I wish I had
died in that illness. Better for me! Better--perhaps--for you."
"Not for me," said she, through her tears. "Do not think of me. I wish I
could help you in this great sorrow!"
"Help from you of any sort, Lucy, I forfeited in my blind wilfulness,"
he hoarsely whispered. "God bless you!" he added, wringing her hands to
pain. "God bless you for ever!"
She did not loose them. He was about to draw his hands away, but she
held them still, her tears and sobs nearly choking her.
"You spoke of India. Should it be that land that you choose for your
exile, go to papa. He may be able to do great things for you. And, if in
his power, he _would_ do them, for Sir Lionel Verner's sake. Papa longs
to know you. He always says so much about you in his letters to me."
"You have never told me so, Lucy."
"I thought it better not to talk to you too much," she simply said. "And
you have not been always at Deerham."
Lionel looked at her, holding her hands still. She knew how futile it
was to affect ignorance of truths in that moment of unreserve; she knew
that her mind and its feelings were as clear to Lionel as though she had
been made of glass, and she spoke freely in her open simplicity.
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