Beadle's Dime Novels No. 3: Myra, the Child of Adoption — page 52: what you’re looking at

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

50 MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. his heart. “Go on,” he said, after 2 moment; “go on, I am listening.” “This lady, sir, seemed determined to see you; she came on here—she is now in Baltimore.” “ And her companion ?” said Mr. Clark, with a ghastly smile. “No,” replied Smith; “I think she would not do that She wishes to see you; I do not know what her object is.” “I will not see her; I will never see her again,” said Mr. Clark, and his face looked like marble. “If she needs any thing, supply her; she is, sir, the mother of my child; she is —but I will not talk of it; let her want for nothing—she is my wife.” “You will not see her then ?” “No, it is enough.” Mr. Clark rang the bell—a man en- tered. “Have my carriage brought up at once; I shall set out for Washington. Mr. Smith, you know how to act. Save me from a repetition of this: you see how it tortures me. I loved that young creature—I thotight, fool, madmam, that I. was—but she seemed to love me.” , Mr. Clark went into another room; he could not endure that other eyes should witness his emotion. The coachman now came up; his proud master understood that every thing was ready, and without speaking a word, left his apartments. He stepped into his carriage; he was gone—gone without hearing the wild shriek that broke from the lips of that poor young wife, who had caught one glimpse of him from her window. She shook the sash—she strove to call after him; but her arms trembled—her voice was choked; with all her effort she made but little noise; those in the next room heard nothing of it, till she fell heavily on the floor. Mr. Smith found her there, lying like a corpse rigid and insensible. Then his heart smote him—then would he have given worlds that the falsehoods which brought all this misery had not been uttered. He had tried to think ill of his victim, to believe that between her and her husband there was neither love nor sympathy; how had the last hour undeceived him. Madden- ed by doubt and jealousy, his benefactor had not even at- tempted to conceal the anguish occasioned by what he deemed the perfidy of his wife; and she—was she not there, cold as marble, white as death, prostrate at his feet ? . = comliclbooks. com ~—