“Ah!” she sighed, allowing the hand to remain limp and inert in mine. “Yes, I dreaded this. I was convinced from your manner that my fascination had fallen upon you. No!” she cried, rising slowly and determinedly to her feet. “No! I tell you that you must not love me. Rather hate me—curse me for the evil I have already wrought—detest my name as that of one whose sin is unpardonable, whose contact is deadly, and at whose touch all that is good and honest and just withers and passes away. You do not know me, you cannot know me, or you would not kiss my hand,” she cried, with a strange glint in her eyes as she held forth her small, white palm. “You love me!” she added, panting, with a hoarse, harsh laugh. “Say rather that you hold me in eternal loathing.”

“All t. . . Read More