Darkness had descended in the little room, and Harney's face
was a dim blur to Charity. Suddenly he leaned across the table and laid
his hand on hers.
"I shall have to go off for a while--a month or two, perhaps--to arrange
some things; and then I'll come back... and we'll get married."
His voice seemed like a stranger's: nothing was left in it of the
vibrations she knew. Her hand lay inertly under his, and she left it
there, and raised her head, trying to answer him. But the words died
in her throat. They sat motionless, in their attitude of confident
endearment, as if some strange death had surprised them. At length
Harney sprang to his feet with a slight shiver. "God! it's damp--we
couldn't have come here much longer." He went to the shelf, took down a
tin candle-stick and lit the candle; then he propped an unhinged shutter
against the empty window-frame and put the candle on the table. It threw
a queer shadow on his frowning forehead, and made the smile on his lips
a grimace.
"But it's been good, though, hasn't it, Charity?.
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