Sometimes, like a dream that vanishes at
dawn, all the past, all the present would fade and fall away from his
inner consciousness--like a tale that is told, a useless garment. Then
he would remember the past no more, as a man newly risen from a long
illness, a convalescent still overcome with stupor. At last he could
forget--his tortured soul was sinking gently down to death.----But
suddenly, out of the depths of this lethal tranquillity his pain had
sprung up afresh, and the fallen idol was re-established higher than
ever. She and she alone held every fibre of his heart captive beneath
her spells, crushing out his intelligence, keeping the doors of his soul
against any other passion, any sorrow, any dream to the end of all
time----
He was lying of course, but his words were so fervid, his voice so
thrilling, the clasp of his hands so fondly caressing that Elena was
profoundly touched.
'Hush,' she said, 'I must not, dare not listen to you--I am yours no
longer, I never can be yours again--never. Do not say these things----'
'No--listen----'
'I will not--good-bye--I must go now. Good-bye, Andrea,--it is late--let
me go.'
She drew her hands out of the young man's clasp, and, successfully
throwing off the dangerous languor that was creeping over her, she
prepared to rise.
'Then why did you come?' he asked almost roughly, and preventing her
from doing so.
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