is able in any way to bring any
new idea to me. There are other  far deeper and far more
lasting than this, which can not be answered, or excused, or
explained away--the long persistent expressions of unchanging ."

Lord Chetwynde was silent. Hilda had heard all this without moving or
raising her head. Every word was ruin to her . But she still
hoped against , and now, since she had an opportunity to speak,
she still tried to move this obdurate .

"!" she exclaimed, catching at his last word--"! what is
that? the fitful, spitefull feeling arising out of the recollection
of one miserable wordnetanger--or perhaps out of the wordnetanger of wordnetanger at a
forced marriage. What is it? One kind word can dispel it."

As she said this she did not look up. Her face was buried in her
hands. Her tone was half despairing, half imploring, and broken by
.

"True," said Lord Chetwynde. "All that I have thought of, and I used
to console myself with that. I used to say to myself, 'When we meet
again it will be different. When she knows me she can not  me.'"

"You were right," faltered Hilda, with