"Am I
bound to part with them?"
"Certainly not," said Monckton, "but you can surely trust them for a
minute to such a man as Colonel Clifford. I am of opinion," said he,
"that since you can not be confronted with this gentleman's son (though
that is no fault of yours), these letters (by-the-bye, it would have been
as well to show to me,) ought now at once to be submitted to Colonel
Clifford, that he may examine both the contents and the handwriting; then
he will know whether it is his son or not; and probably as you are fair
with him he will be fair with you and tell you the truth."
Colonel Clifford took the letters and ran his eye hastily over two or
three; they were filled with the ardent protestations of youth, and a
love that evidently looked toward matrimony, and they were written and
signed in a handwriting he knew as well as his own.
He said, solemnly, "These letters are written and were sent to Miss Lucy
Muller by my son, Walter Clifford." Then, almost for the first time in
his life, he broke down, and said, "God forgive him; God help him and me.
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