"
"Is my conscience then a worse one than Leopold's?" she asked, but
as if she felt no interest in the answer.
"It is not his, and that is enough. His own and no other can tell
him what he ought to do."
"Why not leave him to it, then?" she said bitterly.
"That is what I want of you, Miss Lingard. I would have you fear to
touch the life of the poor youth."
"Touch his life! I would give him mine to save it. YOU counsel him
to throw it away."
"Alas, what different meanings we put on the word! You call the few
years he may have to live in this world his life; while I--"
"While you count it the millions of which yon know
nothing,--somewhere whence no one has ever returned to bring any
news!--a wretched life at best if it be such as you represent it."
"Pardon me, that is merely what you suppose I mean by the word. I do
not mean that; I mean something altogether different. When I spoke
of his life, I thought nothing about here or there, now or then. You
will see what I mean if you think how the light came back to his eye
and the colour to his cheek the moment he had made up his mind to do
what had long seemed his duty. When I saw him again that light was
still in his eyes, and a feeble hope looked out of every feature.
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