“It was cruel,” said Florence. “I have suffered.”
“Forgive me,” he replied. “I didn't fully realize—I was too intent on my own side of the case. To have let you suffer!—it was more than cruel. I shall not forgive myself for that, at least.”
She made no answer.
“And now that you know?” he asked, in a low voice, after a moment.
“It is so strange,” she replied, coldly. “I can't tell what I think. You are not the same. I can see now that you are he—in spite of all your skill, I can see that.”
He made a slight movement, as if to take her hand. But she drew back, saying quickly:
“And yet you are not he.”
“You are right,” said Turl. “And it isn't as he that I would appear. I am Francis Turl—”
“And Francis Turl is almost a stranger to me,” she answered. “Oh, I see now! Murray Davenport is indeed lost—more lost than ever. Your design has been all too successful.”
“It was his design, remember,” pleaded Turl. “And I am the result of it—the result of his project, his wish, his knowledge and skill. Surely all that was good in him remains in me. I am the good in him, severed from the unhappy, and made fortunate.”