“I will go,” he said, after another long pause. “I will go. But I leave here all that I love in the world—all that I shall ever love. I was false to myself once—only once; I shall never be so again. I shall never cease loving you while I live, Beatrice. I never loved you as I do now.”
She made no sign.
Even when she heard the door of the room open and close, she did not rise.
And the fire burnt itself out, and the lamp burnt itself out, but still she lay there in her tears.
CHAPTER L.—ON CONSOLATION AS A FINE ART.
HIS worst forebodings had come to pass. That was the one feeling which Harold had on leaving her.
He had scarcely ventured to entertain a hope that the result of his interview with her and of his confession to her would be different.
He knew her.