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Maugham, W. Somerset (William Somerset), 1874-1965

"The Magician"

Don't you think it must have been hard for me, under the
actual circumstances, to confess my fault?'
'I wish you not to speak of it. I don't want to think of that horrible
scene.'
'If you knew how lonely I was and how unhappy, you would have a little
mercy.'
His voice was strangely moved. She could not doubt now that he was
sincere.
'You think me a charlatan because I aim at things that are unknown to
you. You won't try to understand. You won't give me any credit for
striving with all my soul to a very great end.'
She made no reply, and for a time there was silence. His voice was
different now and curiously seductive.
'You look upon me with disgust and scorn. You almost persuaded yourself
to let me die in the street rather than stretch out to me a helping hand.
And if you hadn't been merciful then, almost against your will, I should
have died.'
'It can make no difference to you how I regard you,' she whispered.
She did not know why his soft, low tones mysteriously wrung her
heartstrings. Her pulse began to beat more quickly.


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