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 rather than that; anything rather than link her life with Angus Burke’s—whom she loved, hated, despised, admired…. She forced herself to listen to Malcolm.

“Won’t you promise, Lydia? Won’t you tell me now you’ll marry me in a year? It will help me through—the thought of it. Won’t you promise?”

“Malcolm,” she said in a voice which did not sound like her own, “I don’t love you… I don’t think I ever shall. But if you want me to marry you, I will.” Her voice took on a note of shrillness, of brittleness; her words came rapidly, feverishly, as if she must have them said before something stopped her. “I’ll marry you now, this minute, if you want me to, or I’ll promise to marry you when you are ready…. But I don’t love you. You must understand that…. I don’t love you.”

Malcolm could not believe his ears. His heart leaped, leaped in spite of the warning conveyed by her words. He heard them, but waved them aside with the optimism of youth. “Only promise!” he said. “Only promise!… Love! I can wait for that. It—it will come.”

“It will never come…. But I—I will try to—be what a wife should be to you, Malcolm. I’ll try…. I'll try….”

He drew closer, sought to pass his arm about