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Walter left the room; Sybelle remained, frozen between rage and anguish. For some time she stood absolutely still, unable to believe that he had really gone, straining her ears to hear his footsteps returning. Then she flung herself down on the bed and wept, and the rain of tears cooled the fire of rage, leaving a sodden misery behind. But it was not a blank misery. Her mind kept saying, He has gone to her, he has gone to her, and each time it did, she reheard his answer, that he loved only her and that she must trust him. |
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"Men lie," Sybelle sobbed softly to herself. |
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But Sybelle did not really know any men who lied. She had heard secondhand many sad tales of deception and cruelty, and, of course, she was familiar with the songs and stories that minstrels related of fair maids abandonedand of faithful lovers cast off, also. Her personal experience, however, was exactly the opposite. All the men in her family were loving and faithful husbands. They did not lie to their wives, and even when they ran free among the women before they were marriedeven then they did not lie. Sybelle knew that Simon, the most notorious of lovers, had never promised any woman love or constancy except Rhiannonand to her he had given them without deception. |
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Sybelle wiped her eyes and sat up. Why did she think the worst of Walter? Had he ever given her cause? And if he wished to lie, why had he not lied? Sybelle knew her husband was not a fool, that he had a glib tongue and a quick mind. Surely he could have made up some reasonable explanation instead of saying he could not explain. And there had been no light in his eyes. Sybelle had seen Walter's eyes alight with love and with anticipation of love, but then they had been fixed on her. |
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Was she only a jealous fool? How could she ever know? |
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