Arthur W. Marchmont

Summary

Arthur W. Marchmont By Right of Sword

You are mine, Alexis, and no power shall ever part us. I have told you this often before. It was you who sought me, who proffered me your love, who poured on me your caresses and roused the love in me, and roused it never to cease. Do you think me a silly simple fool to be wooed and won and, when deserted, willing to do no more than wring my feeble hands and shed silly tears, and prate and maunder between my stupid sobs, that my heart is broken and that I fain would die—Bah! I am not of that sort. I am a woman who can will and act, and fashion my own ends in my own way.
Source: Gutenberg

Arthur W. Marchmont By Right of Sword

I echoed, looking at Olga, who tried to keep the smile that was dancing in her eyes from travelling to her lips.
"All that a sister need tell," she said.
"Olga, I have no patience with you," exclaimed the aunt. "You have a brother in a thousand—in ten thousand, and yet you speak in that way. And I see you never kiss him now. I should like to know why. Are you ashamed of him? Here he has saved you from all this trouble, and you give him the points of your finger nails to touch. Yet you are not cold and feelingless in other things."
Source: Gutenberg

Arthur W. Marchmont By Right of Sword

But Olga roused herself suddenly with a start and a little cry.
"Oh, Alexis, what have you made me do? Your wound."
I had forgotten all about it, but now when she mentioned it my left arm felt a little stiff.
"I am ashamed of myself," she cried. "What a love must mine be, that I want to dream of it with selfish pleasure when you are wounded. You make me drink oblivion with your kisses."
"Love is a fine narcotic," replied I, laughing. "I felt no wound while you looked at me.
Source: Gutenberg

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