"
She knitted her brows in pitiful perplexity.
"You were talking about the fishermen," said I.
"No," said Silvy, shaking her head; "about Beck. She never says, 'Crazy
Silvy! There she goes! Look at Silvy!' She says, 'Come and see me,
Silvy,' so. So soft spoken. Silvy loves her."
"I love her, too," I said, gently; for Silvy had paused again, and was
knitting her brows in that painful manner, as though the effort to think
gave her actual physical suffering.
"Silvy knows! Silvy knows!" She exclaimed suddenly, her face all smooth
and softly smiling now. "Never--you--trust a neat man," impressively.
"Never you trust 'em--for why? They wasn't made so. God made 'em. God
made 'em to clutter. And there was that Dave Rollin. He was always a'
hangin' things up. He was always foldin' of 'em. He was always a hangin'
'em up in his room. Silvy knows. But there was a piece of writin' got
over behind the bury. And it didn't fall. But it stuck. Silvy knows. She
reads writin'. She reads it over and over. He didn't love Beck any more.
But he's afraid. And he'll give money. 'Oh, go anywhere! Only keep still,
Beck. For Heaven's sake, keep still.' Why, she wouldn't hurt him! Beck
wouldn't hurt him," said Silvy, in a slow tone full of wonder.
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