I'm snarled with lies
and foggy analyses and desires--I who was clear and sure."
She hurried into Kennicott's room, sat on the edge of his bed. He
flapped a drowsy welcoming hand at her from the expanse of quilt and
dented pillows.
"Will, I really think I ought to trot off to St. Paul or Chicago or some
place."
"I thought we settled all that, few nights ago! Wait till we can have a
real trip." He shook himself out of his drowsiness. "You might give me a
good-night kiss."
She did--dutifully. He held her lips against his for an intolerable
time. "Don't you like the old man any more?" he coaxed. He sat up and
shyly fitted his palm about the slimness of her waist.
"Of course. I like you very much indeed." Even to herself it sounded
flat. She longed to be able to throw into her voice the facile passion
of a light woman. She patted his cheek.
He sighed, "I'm sorry you're so tired. Seems like----But of course you
aren't very strong."
"Yes. . . . Then you don't think--you're quite sure I ought to stay here
in town?"
"I told you so! I certainly do!"
She crept back to her room, a small timorous figure in white.
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