“You think me a foolish, eccentric little woman—half mad, perhaps. Think so,” she cried, “and, maybe, you are right; but, with all my weakness and folly, I love you, Richard Linnell, as a mother loves her offspring, and it is to save you from future misery that I have nerved myself to risk your displeasure, and perhaps your future notice, for I am not so vain as to think I can ever be looked upon by you as anything but what I am.”
There was such warmth and sincerity in her words that Richard hastily took her hands.
“Forgive me,” he said; “I am serious, and respect you for all this, Miss Clode.”
She bent down quickly and kissed his hands, making him start, and then look down on her pityingly, his wonder increasing as he saw how moved she was, her tears having fallen on the hands she kissed.
“There,” she cried, “I will not keep you, but I must say what I have on my mind, even if I offend you and make you angry as I did before.”
Richard Linnell looked at her sharply, with his eyes kindling; but, without speaking, she joined her hands together and stood before him as if pleading.