"I just came in to--to see if I could do anything for
you." In fact, I had come, longing for her to do something for me, to show
in look or tone or act some sympathy for me in my loneliness and trouble.
"No, thank you," she said. Her voice seemed that of a stranger who wished
to remain a stranger. And she was evidently waiting for me to go. You will
see what a mood I was in when I say I felt as I had not since I, a very
small boy indeed, ran away from home; I came back through the chilly night
to take one last glimpse of the family that would soon be realizing how
foolishly and wickedly unappreciative they had been of such a treasure
as I; and when I saw them sitting about the big fire in the lamp-light,
heartlessly comfortable and unconcerned, it was all I could do to keep back
the tears of strong self-pity--and I never saw them again.
"I've seen Roebuck," said I to Anita, because I must say something, if I
was to stay on.
"Roebuck?" she inquired. Her tone reminded me that his name conveyed
nothing to her.
"He and I are in an enterprise together," I explained. "He is the one man
who could seriously cripple me."
"Oh," she said, and her indifference, forced though I thought it, wounded.
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