. . Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven. I am afraid because I love you, so that the mere thought of failure hurts. You cannot do a murder and expect that you will not be punished. You desire to know who he was, Sir Rowland. ” “Why did you keep her all of these years? What good can it do?” “She created me, Lucia. ” “Not in the least,” she assured him.
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