She dragged her hands from him and twisted them
together.
"Oh, Hart!" she cried. "It isn't fair! There is a limit! I have suffered
my share. Can't you see? Can't you understand?"
"Yes," he panted. "Yes, my girl! Tell me just this one thing yet, and
I'll cheerfully kill any one who annoys you further. Tell me, Edith!"
Then she lifted her big, dull, pain-filled eyes to his and cried: "No! I
do not believe it now! I know it is not true! I killed his love for me.
It is dead and gone forever. Nothing will revive it! Nothing in all this
world. And that is not all. I did not know how to touch the depths of
his nature. I never developed in him those things he was made to enjoy.
He admired me. He was proud to be with me. He thought, and I thought,
that he worshipped me; but I know now that he never did care for me as
he cares for her. Never! I can see it! I planned to lead society, to
make his home a place sought for my beauty and popularity. She plans to
advance his political ambitions, to make him comfortable physically, to
stimulate his intellect, to bear him a brood of red-faced children. He
likes her and her plans as he never did me and mine. Oh, my soul! Now,
are you satisfied?"
She dropped back against his arm exhausted. Henderson held her and
learned what suffering truly means. He fanned her with his hat, rubbed
her cold hands and murmured broken, incoherent things. By and by slow
tears slipped from under her closed lids, but when she opened them her
eyes were dull and hard.
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