Every line of the figment was
alive to her, and she _realized_ the tale. Severne only repeated it.
At the last touch of his cold art, the warm-hearted girl could contain no
longer.
"Oh, poor Mr. Severne!" she cried; "poor Mr. Severne!" And the tears ran
down her cheeks.
He looked at her first with a little astonishment--fancy taking his
little narrative to heart like that--then with compunction, and then with
a momentary horror at himself, and terror at the impassable gulf fixed
between them, by her rare goodness and his depravity.
Then for a moment he felt, and felt all manner of things at once. "Oh,
don't cry," he blurted out, and began to blubber himself at having made
her cry at all, and so unfairly. It was his lucky hour; this hysterical
effusion, undignified by a single grain of active contrition, or even
penitent resolve, told in his favor. They mingled their tears; and hearts
cannot hold aloof when tears come together. Yes, they mingled their
tears, and the crocodile tears were the male's, if you please, and the
woman's tears were pure holy drops, that angels might have gathered and
carried them to God for pearls of the human soul.
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