Such was my speech.
"Do you wish to puzzle me? Do you know her? But, in truth, there
_is_ something. Again you are pale as that statue. Rely on Paul
Carlos; tell him the grief."
His chair touched mine; his hand, quietly advanced, turned me towards
him.
"Do you know Marie Justine?" said he again.
The name re-pronounced by his lips overcame me unaccountably. It did
not prostrate--no, it stirred me up, running with haste and heat
through my veins--recalling an hour of quick pain, many days and
nights of heart-sickness. Near me as he now sat, strongly and closely
as he had long twined his life in mine--far as had progressed, and
near as was achieved our minds' and affections' assimilation--the very
suggestion of interference, of heart-separation, could be heard only
with a fermenting excitement, an impetuous throe, a disdainful
resolve, an ire, a resistance of which no human eye or cheek could
hide the flame, nor any truth-accustomed human tongue curb the cry.
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