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 all. Perhaps she had dwelt more upon the future than the past, for even love renounces with pain; and one must fight for love even though one may die for it. It was not what had been, but what was to be.

“T love you, Andromeda,” he said.

She knew that with that love was a great, a wonderful pity. Though he tried to hide it her keen eyes searched it out. Yet rather than be the object of his charity she would have renounced him there and then. Yet she knew that of this wonderful pity was the very essence of his love, the light that sparkled in his eyes, the magic that thrilled through his touch.

“Have you thought of it all—what it all may mean? Perseus, let me go if the faintest suspicion of a doubt remains. I have unwound the veil of my soul for your eyes to see; I am naked to your gaze, flaw, blot, blemish. There is yet time. I know my world; happy are those who do not.”

“And if I took you at your word?” he said, kissing the pink tips of her slender fingers.

“I cannot tell. But I should not be angry with you.”

He caught her face between his hands and