I tried and
tried again, I tell you, during that last week, and always failed.
Sometimes I thought it was one, and sometimes another."
"Try once more," said Miriam, pithily.
"How?"
"Are you afraid of this masked man?"
"Afraid? Certainly not. I have nothing to fear. Did he not keep his word
and restore me to my friends at the expiration of the week? You should
have heard him, Miriam, at that last interview--the eloquent, earnest,
impassioned way in which he bid me good-bye. I declare, I felt tempted
for an instant to say: 'Look here, Mr. Mask; if you love me like that,
and if you're absolutely not a fright, take off that ugly, black
death's-head you wear, and I'll stay with you always, since I am your
wife.' But I didn't."
"You would not fear to meet him again, then?"
"On the contrary, I should like it, of all things. There is a halo of
romance about this mysterious husband of mine that renders him intensely
interesting. Girls love romance dearly; and I'm only a girl, you know."
"And the silliest girl I ever did know," said Miriam. "I believe you're
more than half in love with this man in the mask; and if it turns out to
be the artist, you will plump into his arms, forever and always.
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