"I won't," he answered, "if you'll tell me you care for me. Oh, don't
you?--don't you?--not one bit? Just give me a show of a chance and I'll
make you care. I've _got_ to make you care. Why, I've thought of nothing
but you for months--dreamed of you, sleeping and waking. I can't stop;
it's too late. Don't ask me to stop--Anne--dear!"
No woman in her senses could have doubted the sincerity of this young
man. That he was no adept at love making was apparent in the way he
stumbled over his phrases; in the way his voice caught in his throat;
in the way it grew husky toward the last of this impassioned pleading of
his.
He still held her hand close. "Tell me you care--a little," he begged of
her silence.
"No girl can be alone as I am now and not be touched by such words," she
said very gently after a moment's hesitation. "But--promising to marry
you is a different matter. I can't let you rashly offer me so much when
I know what it would mean to you to bring home a--book agent to your
mother!"
He uttered a low exclamation. "My life is my own, to do with as I
please. If I'm satisfied, that's enough. You are what I want--all I
want. As for my mother--when she knows you--But we'll not talk of that
just yet. What I must know is--do you--can you--care for me--enough to
marry me?" His hand tightened on hers, his voice whispered in her ear:
"Anne, darling--can't you love me? I want you so--oh--I want you so! Let
me kiss you--just once, dear.
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