ve you, idiot?" he cried. "I'll have
you sent to gaol as an impostor."
"You forget, my dear," she returned, playing coquettishly with her
rings, and glancing sideways as she spoke, "that you have already
acknowledged me as your wife before the landlord and the servants. It
is too late for that sort of thing. Oh, my dear Jack, you think you are
very clever, but I am as clever as you."
Smothering a curse, he sat down beside her. "Listen, Sarah. What is the
use of fighting like a couple of children. I am rich--"
"So am I." "Well, so much the better. We will join our riches together.
I admit that I was a fool and a cur to leave you; but I played for a
great stake. The name of Richard Devine was worth nearly half a million
in money. It is mine. I won it. Share it with me! Sarah, you and I
defied the world years ago. Don't let us quarrel now. I was ungrateful.
Forget it. We know by this time that we are not either of us angels.
We started in life together--do you remember, Sally, when I met you
first?--determined to make money. We have succeeded. Why then set to
work to destroy each other? You are handsomer than ever, I have not lost
my wits. Is there any need for you to tell the world that I am a runaway
convict, and that you are--well, no, of course there is no need. Kiss
and be friends, Sarah. I would have escaped you if I could, I admit. You
have found me out. I accept the position. You claim me as your husband.
You say you are Mrs. Richard Devine. Very well, I admit it. You have all
your life wanted to be a great lady. Now is your chance!" Much as she
had cause to hate him, well as she knew his treacherous and ungrateful
character, little as she had reason to trust him, her strange and
distempered affection for the scoundrel came upon her again with
gathering strength. As she sat beside him, listening to the familiar
tones of the voice she had learned to love, greedily drinking in the
promise of a future fidelity which she was well aware was made but to
be broken, her memory recalled the past days of trust and happiness,
and her woman's fancy once more invested the selfish villain she had
reclaimed with those attributes which had enchained her wilful and
wayward affections. The unselfish devotion which had marked her conduct
to the swindler and convict was, indeed, her one redeeming virtue; and
perhaps she felt dimly--poor woman--that it were better for her to cling
to that, if she lost all the world beside. Her wis
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