An
incessant turmoil of thought harassed her. Bill passed through the
room once or twice. Determinedly she ignored him. The final snap of
the lock on his trunk came to her at last, the bumping sounds of its
passage to the hall. Then a burly expressman shouldered it into his
wagon and drove away.
A few minutes after that Bill came in and took a seat facing her.
"What are you going to do, Hazel?" he asked soberly.
"Nothing," she curtly replied.
"Are you going to sit down and fold your hands and let our air castles
come tumbling about our ears, without making the least effort to
prevent?" he continued gently. "Seems to me that's not like you at
all. I never thought you were a quitter."
"I'm not a quitter," she flung back resentfully. "I refuse to be
browbeaten, that's all. There appears to be only one choice--to follow
you like a lamb. And I'm not lamblike. I'd say that you are the
quitter. You have stirred up all this trouble here between us. Now
you're running away from it. That's how it looks to me. Go on! I can
get along."
"I dare say you can," he commented wearily. "Most of us can muddle
along somehow, no matter what happens. But it seems a pity, little
person.
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