A Parisian Romance — page 96: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 87 trouble, let me share it; tell me, I implore you!” “Well, then,” he said, slowly, as if the words were difficult to enunciate, “since she speaks of re- morse, she must therefore be—be—guilty.” “Guilty !” “But of what fault?” he continued, not noticing his wife’s horrified exclamation. “And toward whom? I know she was not happy with my father—it was not her fault—but his sudden death. His sudden death! Could it have been brought about by any frightful discovery, or,” half in a whisper, “was it due to something worse? My God! Have I no right to love, to respect my mother? Is she unworthy of all I have felt for her?” He paused, and before his wife could reply, a low moan resounded through the room, a moan so full of anguish, that Marcelle involuntarily caught her breath, and Henri sprang to his feet. At the door of the room, which he had neglected to close on his entrance, stood his mother, attired in a long, black dressing-gown, with her snow-white hair flowing down her back, and her dark eyes glowing like coals of fire in her colorless face—a somber, awe-inspiring figure. “Unhappy boy!”.she exclaimed, in a voice trem- bling with the emotion she was evidently striving to control. “Mother!” exclaimed Henri, advancing toward her. But she waved him back, Comichbookssco in