He had that in mind; she understood it too well. But not
one moment's advantage would she relinquish. He must choose her
in her poverty, and be content with what his talents could earn
for him. Her love gave her the right to demand this sacrifice;
let him ask for her love, and the sacrifice would no longer seem
one, so passionately would she reward him.
He would ask it. To-night she was full of a rich confidence,
partly, no doubt, the result of reaction from her miseries. He
had said at parting that her character was so well suited to his;
that he liked her. And then he had pressed her hand so warmly.
Before long he would ask her love.
The unhoped was all but granted her. She could labour on in the
valley of the shadow of books, for a ray of dazzling sunshine
might at any moment strike into its musty gloom.
CHAPTER XV. THE LAST RESOURCE
The past twelve months had added several years to Edwin Reardon's
seeming age; at thirty-three he would generally have been taken
for forty. His bearing, his personal habits, were no longer those
of a young man; he walked with a stoop and pressed noticeably on
the stick he carried; it was rare for him to show the countenance
which tells of present cheerfulness or glad onward-looking; there
was no spring in his step; his voice had fallen to a lower key,
and often he spoke with that hesitation in choice of words which
may be noticed in persons whom defeat has made self-distrustful.
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