"It deals with one thought and no more.

One recollection paralyzes it.

It is not remorse; do not think it! I put myself out of the question, and feel neither regret nor penitence on my own behalf.

But what benumbs me, what robs me of all power,-it is no secret for a woman to tell a man, yet I care not though you know it, -- is the certainty that I am, and must ever be, an object of horror in Donatello's sight." The sculptor--a young man, and cherishing a love which insulated him from the wild experiences which some men gather--was startled to perceive how Miriam's rich, ill-regulated nature impelled her to fling herself, conscience and all, on one passion, the object of which intellectually seemed far beneath her.
"How have you obtained the certainty of which you speak ?" asked he, after a pause.
"O, by a sure token," said Miriam; "a gesture, merely; a shudder, a cold shiver, that ran through him one sunny morning when his hand happened to touch mine! But it was enough." "I firmly believe, Miriam," said the sculptor, "that he loves you still." She started, and a flush of color came tremulously over the paleness of her cheek.
"Yes," repeated Kenyon, "if my interest in Donatello--and in yourself, Miriam--endows me with any true insight, he not only loves you still, but with a force and depth proportioned to the stronger grasp of his faculties, in their new development." "Do not deceive me," said Miriam, growing pale again.
"Not for the world!" replied Kenyon.

"Here is what I take to be the truth.