"No," I replied, determined to push the panic into a rout. "As I told you,
our future shall be settled to-night." That in _my_ tone for finality.
A pause, then: "It _has_ been settled," she said, like a child that
feels, yet denies, its impotence as it struggles in the compelling arms of
its father. "I thought until a few minutes ago that I really intended to
marry you. Now I see that I didn't."
"Another reason why we're not going to your uncle's," said I.
She leaned forward so that I could see her face. "I can not marry you," she
said. "I feel humble toward you, for having misled you. But it is better
that you--and I--should have found out now than too late."
"It is too late--too late to go back."
"Would you wish to marry a woman who does not love you, who loves some one
else, and who tells you so and refuses to marry you?" She had tried to
concentrate enough scorn into her voice to hide her fear.
"I would," said I. "And I shall. I'll not desert you, Anita, when your
courage and strength shall fail. I will carry you on to safety."
"I tell you I can not marry you," she cried, between appeal and command.
"There are reasons--I may not tell you. But if I might, you would--would
take me to my uncle's.
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