But it ended
everything so far as I am concerned. Am I unreasonable? I don't
think so. You steal off to America, thinking I am in England, and
behave like this. How could you do that if you really loved me?
It's the deceit of it that hurts me.'
Lord Dawlish drew in a few breaths of pure Long Island air, but he
did not speak. He felt helpless. If he were to be allowed to
withdraw into the privacy of the study and wrap a cold, wet towel
about his forehead and buckle down to it, he knew that he could
draft an excellent and satisfactory explanation of his presence at
Reigelheimer's with the Good Sport. But to do it on the spur of
the moment like this was beyond him.
Claire was speaking again. She had paused for a while after her
recent speech, in order to think of something else to say; and
during this pause had come to her mind certain excerpts from one
of those admirable articles on love, by Luella Delia Philpotts,
which do so much to boost the reading public of the United States
into the higher planes. She had read it that afternoon in the
Sunday paper, and it came back to her now.
'I may be hypersensitive,' she said, dropping her voice from the
accusatory register to the lower tones of pathos, 'but I have such
high ideals of love. There can be no true love where there is not
perfect trust.
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