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Sabatini, Rafael, 1875-1950

"Scaramouche"

I cannot... I cannot wish it
otherwise."
"Is there any need, madame?" he asked her, his stoicism deeply
shaken. "There is no occasion to take others into our confidence.
This is for to-night alone. To-night we are mother and son.
To-morrow we resume our former places, and, outwardly at least,
forget."
"Forget? Have you no heart, Andre-Louis?"
The question recalled him curiously to his attitude towards life
- that histrionic attitude of his that he accounted true philosophy.
Also he remembered what lay before them; and he realized that he
must master not only himself but her; that to yield too far to
sentiment at such a time might be the ruin of them all.
"It is a question propounded to me so often that it must contain
the truth," said he. "My rearing is to blame for that."
She tightened her clutch about his neck even as he would have
attempted to disengage himself from her embrace.
"You do not blame me for your rearing? Knowing all, as you do,
Andre-Louis, you cannot altogether blame. You must be merciful to
me.


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