"I am willing to
believe you innocent of that awful crime at Ridgewood, but there are
other crimes as wicked as murder--"
"I know," he cried, rising and clasping his hands, while he bent a
pleading, wistful look into her face. "You refer to that scene in the
garden." "I do," coldly.
"You have never permitted me to explain that."
"It is not susceptible of explanation."
"It is--"
"I must take counsel of my senses, Mr. Bordine," persisted Rose,
trampling fiercely on her own heart. "I know that that woman was your
wife. I heard enough to convince me of this. Your perfidy ought to make
me hate you."
"And you do hate me, Rose?"
"No--"
"Thank Heaven for that."
"Leave me now, Mr. Bordine."
"Mr. Bordine!" he cried bitterly. "It is August no longer. You would
drive me from you without permitting me to explain. You are unjust,
Rose."
"Never. Would to Heaven I could be!"
What did she mean?
A sudden, wild hope entered the heart of the schemer. He was making even
better progress than he had anticipated.
"You will, you must hear my explanation of that scene in the garden,"
persisted he.
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