I'm not ashamed to own it. I'm no
sentimental prude to throw up my hands in horror at a perfectly natural
emotion. But he is not for me. I dare say I couldn't give him an
added heartbeat if I tried. And I have a little too much
pride--strange as it may seem to you--to try, so long as he is chained
hand and foot to your chariot. But you're making him suffer. And I
care enough to want him to live all his days happily. He is a man, and
there are so few of them, real men. If you can make him happy I'd
compel you to do so, if I had the power. You couldn't understand that
kind of a love. Oh, I could choke you for your stupid disloyalty. I
could do almost anything that would spur you to action. I can't rid
myself of the hopeless, reckless mood he was in. There are so few of
his kind, the patient, strong, loyal, square-dealing men, with a
woman's tenderness and a lion's courage. Any woman should be proud and
glad to be his mate, to mother his children. And you--"
She threw out her hands with a sudden, despairing gesture. The blue
eyes grew misty, and she hid her face in her palms. Before that
passionate outburst Hazel sat dumbly amazed, staring, uncertain.
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