But her answer
was a vague, musing, "I wonder--I wonder."
"I'm sure _you_ wouldn't," I protested earnestly, for her.
She looked at me queerly.
"Can I never convince you that I'm just a woman?" said she mockingly. "Just
a woman, and one a man with your ideas of women would fly from."
"I wish you were!" I exclaimed. "Then--I'd not find it so--so impossible to
give you up."
She rose and made a slow tour of the room, halting on the rug before the
closed fireplace a few feet from me. I sat looking at her.
"I am going to give you up," I said at last.
Her eyes, staring into vacancy, grew larger and intenser with each long,
deep breath she took.
"I didn't intend to say what I'm about to say--at least, not this evening,"
I went on, and to me it seemed to be some other than myself who was
speaking. "Certain things happened down town to-day that have set me to
thinking. And--I shall do whatever I can for your brother and your father.
But you--you are free!"
She went to the table, stood there in profile to me, straight and slender
as a sunflower stalk. She traced the silver chasings in the lid of the
cigarette box with her forefinger; then she took a cigarette and began
rolling it slowly and absently.
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