"]
He reached out one long arm and drew her up close to him.
"Little person," he whispered, "if you just cared one little bit as
much as I do, it would be all right. Look at me. Just the thought of
what might have happened to you has set every nerve in my body jumping.
I'm Samson shorn. Why can't you care? I'd be gooder than gold to
_you_."
She drew herself away from him without answering--not in fear, but
because her code of ethics, the repressive conventions of her whole
existence urged her to do so in the face of a sudden yearning to draw
his bloody face up close to her and kiss it. The very thought, the
swift surge of the impulse frightened her, shocked her. She could not
understand it, and so she took refuge behind the woman instinct to hold
back, that strange feminine paradox which will deny and shrink from the
dominant impulses of life. And Roaring Bill made no effort to hold
her. He let her go, and fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe his
glistening face. And presently he went over to where a little stream
bubbled among the tree roots and washed his hands and face. Then he
got a clean shirt out of his war bag and disappeared into the brush to
change.
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