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 “Who will restore to me my good name? No. I shall not return to London, madame.”

“You must return,” she broke in, wildly. “It is a sacred duty. If not for yourself, for the blood that runs in our veins.”

The phrase sang sweet in his ears. But he gave no sign.

“Blood is thicker than water, but it seeks its level as surely. I have made my bed; I shall sleep no less soundly because it is a rough one.”

She struggled to contain the violence of her emotion. “No, no, it cannot be, it must not be. You will learn how I have striven for you. You cannot refuse. It would be cruel, inhuman, monstrous!”

“Mistress Clerke has much to learn of the inhumanities,” he said. And then, with cool composure, “What power availed to convince her, where Monsieur Mornay was so unfortunate?”

“You are cruel, cruel. What had you to expect of me? What had you done in London to merit my favor? Why should I have believed in one of whom I knew nothing—nothing but 219