"
"Well, Amelius, I must tell you first that I committed a sin, many long
years ago. I have suffered the punishment; I am suffering it still.
Ever since I was a young woman, I have had a heavy burden of misery on
my heart. I am not reconciled to it, I cannot submit to it, yet. I
never shall be reconciled to it, I never shall submit to it, if I live
to be a hundred. Do you wish me to enter into particulars? or will you
have mercy on me, and be satisfied with what I have told you so far?"
It was not said entreatingly, or tenderly, or humbly: she spoke with a
savage self-contained resignation in her manner and in her voice.
Amelius forgot his cigar again--and again she reminded him of it. He
answered her as his own generous impulsive temperament urged him; he
said, "Tell me nothing that causes you a moment's pain; tell me only
how I can help you." She handed him the box of matches; she said, "Your
cigar is out again."
He laid down his cigar. In his brief span of life he had seen no human
misery that expressed itself in this way. "Excuse me," he answered; "I
won't smoke just now."
She laid her cigar aside like Amelius, and crossed her arms over her
bosom, and looked at him, with the first softening gleam of tenderness
that he had seen in her face.
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