Hazen only
stood unmoved, his look, his grasp, the spirit behind that look and
grasp, implacable and determined. Their influence was terrible; slowly
she succumbed to it against her will and purpose, the will and purpose of
a very strong woman. Her eyes rose in a painful and lingering struggle to
his face. Then, with a cry her drawn and parched lips could not suppress,
she flashed them in agony on Ransom, and this long-suffering man read in
them the maddening truth. They were his wife's eyes; the woman before him
was indeed Georgian.
"Speak!" rang out the voice of Hazen, as Harper, realizing from Ransom's
face what Ransom had just realized from hers, stepped to the door and
closed it. "The time is short; I have much, very much to do. For my sake,
for the sake of this much-abused man, whom you allowed to marry you,
speak out, tell the truth at once. You are Georgian."
"Yes," fell in almost an inaudible whisper from her lips. "I am
Georgian." Then as he loosed his grasp from her arm and she was left
standing there alone, some instinct of isolation, some realization of the
mysterious pit she had dug for herself and possibly for others, in this
avowal of her identity, wrought her brain into momentary madness, and
flinging up her arms she fell on her knees before Hazen as under the
stroke of some unseen thunderbolt.
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