She tried to rise, but he prevented her. "Margaret!" he said.
"And must I always be the one?" She did rise, she moved from his grasping hands. "You talk about my dying—that would make me die, to have you pursue me, ungenerously, brutally, when I have already such hard pain to bear." With a step that swayed with her exhaustion she went towards the door. "I can only appeal to you, Evert," she said when she had reached it, looking back at him over her shoulder—"I can only appeal to you not to try to see me again. It will be the same with me always, and so I appeal to you for always. I shall never change; and I should never yield; so you can see that it will only make me suffer more."
She turned the latch. "Perhaps, sometime—the years that we give up to duty here—" She went hastily out.
EPILOGUE.
It was eight years later at East Angels. Penelope and Middleton had come down for an afternoon visit; Betty was already there, Betty was generally there.
Dr. Kirby had just gone; he had brought to them the surprising tidings that Garda had turned her back upon her many admirers, and was about to bestow her hand upon Adolfo Torres.
The Doctor having gone, "I'll believe it when I see it!" Kate declared.
"But, Kate dear, you can't see all the way to Paris," said Betty.
That same evening, Margaret was sitting beside the lamp in the drawing-room, embroidering something which took her close attention.