But, what is it! What did you promise?" "To offer you my heart, my hand, my life," replied Kneebone, falling at her feet. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. In your heart you know very well that this is absurd.
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