"And that you... that you... And what of Mademoiselle
Binet, whom he was to have married?"
He stared at her for a moment in sheer surprise. "Was to have
married?" he repeated incredulously, dismayed almost.
"You did not know that?"
"But how do you?"
"Did I not tell you that we are as brother and sister almost? I
have his confidence. He told me, before... before you made it
impossible."
He looked away, chin in hand, his glance thoughtful, disturbed,
almost wistful.
"There is," he said slowly, musingly, "a singular fatality at
work between that man and me, bringing us ever each by turns
athwart the other's path... "
He sighed; then swung to face her again, speaking more briskly:
"Mademoiselle, until this moment I had no knowledge - no suspicion
of this thing. But..." He broke off, considered, and then
shrugged. "If I wronged him, I did so unconsciously. It would be
unjust to blame me, surely. In all our actions it must be the
intention alone that counts."
"But does it make no difference?"
"None that I can discern, mademoiselle.
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