Give it to me."
"A little while ago you feared the future too much to even speak."
"But for you; not for myself. Can you love me?"
She cast herself, wildly sobbing, upon his breast.
"Better than life--than truth itself--than everything."
"And my own past," said Lorison, with a note of solicitude--"can you
forgive and--"
"I answered you that," she whispered, "when I told you I loved you."
She leaned away, and looked thoughtfully at him. "If I had not told
you about myself, would you have--would you--"
"No," he interrupted; "I would never have let you know I loved you. I
would never have asked you this--Norah, will you be my wife?"
She wept again.
"Oh, believe me; I am good now--I am no longer wicked! I will be
the best wife in the world. Don't think I am--bad any more. If you
do I shall die, I shall die!"
While he was consoling, her, she brightened up, eager and impetuous.
"Will you marry me to-night?" she said. "Will you prove it that way.
I have a reason for wishing it to be to-night. Will you?"
Of one of two things was this exceeding frankness the outcome: either
of importunate brazenness or of utter innocence. The lover's
perspective contained only the one.
"The sooner," said Lorison, "the happier I shall be.
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