Because he had loved Maurice! Had there been a time, really a time,
when she had possessed one who belonged utterly to her, who lived only
in and for her? Was that possible? To-day, with the fierceness of one
starving, she fastened upon this memory, her memory, hers only, shared
by no one, never shared by living or dead. That at least she had, and
that could never be taken from her. Even if Vere, her child, slipped
from her, if Emile, her friend, whose life she had saved, slipped from
her, the memory of her Sicilian was forever hers, the memory of his
love, his joy in their mutual life, his last kiss. Long ago she had
taken that kiss as a gift made to two--to her and to Vere unborn.
To-day, almost savagely, she took it to herself, alone, herself--
alone. Hers it was, hers only, no part of it Vere's.
That she had--her memory, and Gaspare's loyal, open-hearted devotion.
He knew what she had suffered. He loved her as he had loved his dead
Padrone. He would always protect her, put her first without
hesitation, conceal nothing from her that it was her right--for surely
even the humblest, the least selfish, the least grasping, surely all
who love have their rights--that it was her right to know.
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