the absence of all her little airs, as if she were only concerned to use the time in getting an answer that would guide her, made her appeal unspeakably touching.
Deronda said,—"I should feel something of what you feel—deep sorrow."
"But what would you try to do?" said Gwendolen, with urgent quickness.
"Order my life so as to make any possible amends, and keep away from doing any sort of injury again," said Deronda, catching her sense that the time for speech was brief.
"But I can't—I can't; I must go on," said Gwendolen, in a passionate loud whisper. "I have thrust out others—I have made my gain out of their loss—tried to make it—tried. And I must go on, I can't alter it."
It was impossible to answer this instantaneously. Her words had confirmed his conjecture, and the situation of all concerned rose in swift images before him. His feeling for those who had been "thrust out" sanctioned her remorse; he could not try to nullify it, yet his heart was full of pity for her. But as soon as he could he answered—taking up her last words—
"That is the bitterest of all—to wear the yoke of our own wrong-doing. But if you submitted
