Destiny was unquestionable. She felt that she abhorred Ingram. What she
was to suffer from him she knew but too well. And yet she knew also that
she was going to marry him, to be neglected by him, put to scorn,
betrayed. All these things she would undergo, because they could not be
avoided. She was bound as well as gagged. Her destiny was before her, as
her character was within. The one had begotten the other. She had sowed,
and now she was to reap. Her stony mind contemplated the harvest, and saw
that it was just.
Therefore she said nothing, but stood with her foot on the fender, shading
her face from the fire with her thin hand. In this attitude, though able
to see sideways what was coming upon her, she stood nerveless to his
approach. "Sancie, my own Sancie," he said, and put his arm about her, and
drew her bodily to his side. She stiffened, but allowed it.
"Dearest girl, tell me that you forgive me--tell me that. I am wretched
without you--I can't go on like this. It's not good for me; my health
suffers. Darling Sancie, forgive poor old Nevile. He was once your boy--
you loved him so much. For the sake of old times, Sancie, my dear."
She could only say, "I have forgiven you--you know that.
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