Then he crushed the letters together in his hand and held them
tightly, unconsciously, while his starting eyes were fixed on vacancy
and his frozen lips muttered:
"In a fit of frantic passion, anger, jealousy--even he might have been
maddened to the pitch of doing such a thing! But as an act of base
policy, as an act of forethought, oh! never, never, never!"
"Paul! Paul! speak to me, Paul. Tell me what you think. I have had
foreshadowings long. I can bear silence and uncertainty no longer. What
find you in those letters? Oh, speak, or my heart will burst, Paul."
He gave no heed to her or her words, but remained like one impaled;
still, fixed, yet writhing, his features, his whole form and expression
discolored, distorted with inward agony.
"Paul! Paul!" cried Miriam, starting up, standing before him, gazing on
him. "Paul! speak to me. Your looks kill me. Speak, Paul! even though
you can tell me little new. I know it all, Paul; or nearly all. Weeks
ago I received the shock! it overwhelmed me for the time; but I survived
it! But you, Paul--you! Oh! how you look! Speak to your sister, Paul!
Speak to your promised wife."
But he gave no heed to her. She was not strong or assured--she felt
herself tottering on the very verge of death or madness.
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