'
'I have been distracted. It was as if we were drawing nearer and
nearer to the edge of a cataract.'
'Have you spoken to your mother about this?' he asked uneasily.
'No--not exactly this. But I know she will help us in this way.'
He had seated himself and was holding her in his arms, his face
laid against hers.
'I shall dread to part from you, Amy. That's such a dangerous
thing to do. It may mean that we are never to live as husband and
wife again.'
'But how could it? It's just to prevent that danger. If we go on
here till we have no money--what's before us then? Wretched
lodgings at the best. And I am afraid to think of that. I can't
trust myself if that should come to pass.'
'What do you mean?' he asked anxiously.
'I hate poverty so. It brings out all the worst things in me; you
know I have told you that before, Edwin?'
'But you would never forget that you are my wife?'
'I hope not. But--I can't think of it; I can't face it! That
would be the very worst that can befall us, and we are going to
try our utmost to escape from it. Was there ever a man who did as
much as you have done in literature and then sank into hopeless
poverty?'
'Oh, many!'
'But at your age, I mean.
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