Then all feeling was lost but the
realization that he could not--in any true sense--live without her.
"Susan," he said, leaning forward, "you must marry me. Do you care for
me at all?"
Her breast rose and fell under the delicate contour of her wool gown.
"The child's mother," she repeated, "you should marry her. How can you
do differently? What can it matter if I care about you?" She raised a
miserable face. "How can I?" she asked.
He could think of no other answer than to repeat his supreme necessity
for her. He struggled to tell her that this was an altogether different
man from Essie Scofield's companion; but his words were unconvincing,
limited by the inhibition of custom. A transparent dusk deepened in the
room accompanied by a pause only broken by the faint explosions of the
soft coal. The power of persuasion, of speech, appeared to have left
him. There must be some convincing thing to say, some last,
all-powerful, argument. It eluded him. The exasperation returned,
spreading through his being.
"Surely," she said laboriously, "there is only one course for you, for
us all."
"I'll never marry Essie Scofield!" he declared bluntly. His voice was
unexpectedly loud, unpleasant; and it surprised him only less than Susan
Brundon.
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