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Page 53
Then Gervase said "Once,
Lota, while he sang,
He saw you, you who listened ignorant
Of him among an open-mouthed stage crowd,
And, when he learned your name, 'Miss Deveril,'
He threw his future wildly to the winds,
That then was something brightening; 'Lost' he said
And - thus he told it me when I had said
I would come for you, he told all unaware
That I had known you - like a desperate wretch
Who, meaning to front death, should furiously
Quaff heady madness, cup by cup, to make
Dying a drunkard's frolic, he, doomed still
To live, because you bade him not take rest
In his own fashion, sought for madness then
To front life with, and headlong hurried o'er
The deep scarp of his downfall. 'Lost' he cried,
And took no further thought to save himself,
But rushed into a quagmire in his way,
And felt the slimy murderous waters ooze
Over the lip and choke him. Mad indeed,
But mad because, for all his wrongs to you,
He loved you."
But she answered, though some tears
In spite of her went slowly down her cheeks,
"If, as I guess your tale, your quagmire means
An utterer slough of vice than yet he knew,
Your madness wickedness, is it a claim
Because he tries to foul me with his guilt,
As formerly - my fault his infamies,
My fault that he betrayed me, my fault now
His lawless shameless outburst - is it a claim
Because he adds this outrage?" so she grew
To passion by her speaking.
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