My indignation
waxed hot against the scoundrel. How dare he write casual
letters to Judith about Carmine Badouin with his treachery on his
conscience? I know the terms of flippant grace in which the
knave couched this precious epistle. And I could see Carlotta
reading over his shoulder and clapping her hands and cooing: "Oh,
that is so funny!"
When I had told Judith the outlines of the story, pacing up and
down the little room while she remained motionless by the table,
she put out her hand to me, and in a low voice, and with still
averted eyes said that she was sorry, deeply sorry. Her tone
rang so true and loyal that my heart throbbed with quick
appreciation of her high nature, and I wrung her outstretched
hand.
"God bless you, Judith," I cried, fervently. "Bless you for your
sweet sympathy. Be sorry for me only as for a man who has passed
through the horrors of delirium. But for me as I stand before
you now, I ask you not to be sorry. I have come to bring you, if
I can, dear Judith, a measure of gladness, perhaps of happiness.
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