"
"I lied to you!" she cried, so passionately that he leaped to his feet
and stared down on her. "I said it. I remember. But I lied. I was
punishing myself because I had been selfish about you. But I didn't
believe what I was saying--not deep in my heart. I wanted you to say you
wouldn't go--but I didn't want you to look back ever and blame me for my
selfishness. You see now how wicked and wrong and weak I am. I didn't
want the world to take you away from--from us up here: from the woods
and the plain folks. You'll hate me now. But I have to be truthful with
you!" Her voice broke.
"The world has not won me away from my friends, dear. You must know me
too well for that suspicion to shame me."
She crouched on the step before him. Her hands, fingers interlaced,
gripped each other hard to quiet their trembling. In her girlish
frailness, as she bent above her clasped hands, huddled there in the
black shadow of the porch, she seemed pitifully little and helpless and
forsaken. The woe in her tones thrilled him. She was trying hard to
control her voice.
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