"Can you do aught for Armand?" she said sweetly and simply.
"You have so much influence at court. . .so many friends. . ."
"Nay, Madame, should you not seek the influence of your French
friend, M. Chauvelin? His extends, if I mistake not, even as far as
the Republican Government of France."
"I cannot ask him, Percy. . . . Oh! I wish I dared to tell
you. . .but. . .but. . .he has put a price on my brother's head,
which. . ."
She would have given worlds if she had felt the courage then
to tell him everything. . .all she had done that night--how she had
suffered and how her hand had been forced. But she dared not give way
to that impulse. . .not now, when she was just beginning to feel that
he still loved her, when she hoped that she could win him back. She
dared not make another confession to him. After all, he might not
understand; he might not sympathise with her struggles and temptation.
His love still dormant might sleep the sleep of death.
Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. His whole
attitude was one of intense longing--a veritable prayer for that
confidence, which her foolish pride withheld from him.
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