"Wait a moment," he said. "Why can't one of those missionaries marry
us there?"
She had scrambled to her knees, and snatched at her skirt preparatory
to the jump to her feet.
"No," she said vehemently. "No. What's the matter with you all
talking about marriages and missionaries when we're in the middle of
the wilds?"
"Susan," he cried, catching at her dress, "just listen a moment. I
could take care of you then, take care of you properly. You'd be my
own, to look after and work for. It's seemed to me lately you loved me
enough. I wouldn't have suggested such a thing if you were as you were
in the beginning. But you seem to care now. You seem as if--as if--it
wouldn't be so hard for you to live with me and let me love you."
She jerked her skirt away and leaped to her feet crying again, "No,
David, no. Not for a minute."
He rose too, very pale, the piece of sage in his hand shaking. They
looked at each other, the yellow light clear on both faces. Hers was
hard and combative, as if his suggestion had outraged her and she was
ready to fight it. Its expression sent a shaft of terror to his soul,
for with all his unselfishness he was selfish in his man's longing for
her, hungered for her till his hunger had made him blind.
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