or a cockatrice, or any other trifle of that nature with infinitely
greater composure. The pause that followed Margaret accordingly
devoted to a scrutiny of his shoes and sincere regret that their owner
was not a mercenary man who would be glad to be rid of her.
"Beautiful child," spoke the poet's voice, sadly, "you aren't--surely,
you aren't saying this in mistaken kindness to me? Surely, you aren't
saying this because of what has happened in regard to your money
affairs? Believe me, my dear, that makes no difference to me. It
is you I love--you, the woman of my heart--and not a certain, and
doubtless desirable, amount of metal disks and dirty paper."