She
endured it for a space and then said with an edge of irritation on her
voice:
"What are you staring at me for? Is there something on my face?"
He breathed in a roughened voice:
"No, I love you."
Her discomfort increased. Tumult and coldness make uncongenial
neighbors. The man, all passion, and the woman, who has no answering
spark, grope toward each other through devious and unillumined ways.
He whispered again:
"I love you so. You don't understand."
She did not and looked at him inquiringly, hoping to learn something
from his face. His eyes, meeting hers, were full of tears. It
surprised her so that she stared speechlessly at him, her head thrown
back, her lips parted.
He looked down, ashamed of his emotion, murmuring:
"You don't understand. It's so sacred. Some day you will."
She did not speak to him again, but she let him hold her hand because
she thought she ought to and because she was sorry.
CHAPTER VI
The next morning the rain was pouring. The train rolled out without
picturesque circumstance, the men cursing, the oxen, with great heads
swinging under the yokes, plodding doggedly through lakes fretted with
the downpour.
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