She
had tried to forget the kind voice, the kindly, understanding eyes, and
had blamed herself as a criminal because she could not.
"I had nothing else to remember--but unhappiness--and it seemed as if I
could not help but remember HIM," she said as simply as the Rosy who
had left New York at nineteen might have said it. "I was afraid to trust
myself to speak his name. When Nigel made insulting speeches I could
not answer him, and he used to say that women who had adventures should
train their faces not to betray them every time they were looked at.
"Oh!" broke from Betty's lips, and she stood up on the hearth and threw
out her hands. "I wish that for one day I might be a man--and your
brother instead of your sister!"
"Why?"
Betty smiled strangely--a smile which was not amused--which was perhaps
not a smile at all. Her voice as she answered was at once low and tense.
"Because, then I should know what to do. When a male creature cannot be
reached through manhood or decency or shame, there is one way in which
he can be punished. A man--a real man--should take him by his throat
and lash him with a whip--while others look on--lash him until he howls
aloud like a dog."
She had not expected to say it, but she had said it.
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