Her Faithful Knight — page 195: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Truth at Last. IQ! Again he stretched his arms out toward her, and again she pushed him from her, this time roughly, desperately. She was thinking hard all the time as she sat there silent. She was recalling the picture her sister’s words had painted of Sergius Trevelyan, the soft-voiced, sym- pathetic, poetry-loving Adonis, and details she had for- gotten sprang with sudden clearness into her mind— Trevelyan’s hints as to his noble origin and banishment from his rightful position, his half-Italian, half-Irish ex- traction, his soft, musical voice, his large, blue eyes, with their long, curled lashes, his delicate, white hands. She sprang from her seat with a loud cry. “Good heavens! You are Sergius Trevelyan!” Dead silence for a few seconds while bride and bride- groom faced each other, and only the noise of the hurry- ing train dinned in their ears—the train which was bear- ing them away to begin their married life together. There had been no questioning note in Dorothy’s cry. It breathed the fullest, the most hideous, conviction. As a lightning flash suddenly illumines a hidden horror, the truth had appeared before her. She needed no further corroboration; and Darcy knew this, and in the silence was planning how to meet the situation. Before she could divine his intentions, he was on his knees and at her feet, lividly pale and shaking with ex- citement, while he clutched at her gown as though begging for mercy. “Listen!” he cried in a choked voice. ‘Dorothy, don’t hate me! You can’t hate me when you know everything. After all, I haven’t deceived you much. I am Darcy Derrick; you know my real position, my mother, my friends. You are my wife, and I worship the ground you walk on. Don’t tear yourself away from me, Doro- thy, for mercy’s sake! Think, dear, how I love you! CONMIEDOO “S (S@)