"You wouldn't like any girl I'd marry," he retorted with a feeble
attempt at mirth. "If I tried to put your advice into practice there'd
be trouble as sure as shot."
"No, thar wouldn't--not if I picked her out," she returned.
"Great Scott! Won't you let me choose my own wife even?" he exclaimed,
with a laugh in which there was an ironic humour. The soft pressure of
Molly's fingers was still on his hand, and he saw her face looking up at
him, gentle and beseeching, as she had looked when she offered her lips
to his kiss. Above the yearning of his heart there rose now the decision
of his judgment--and this had surrendered her to Mr. Mullen! Some rigid
strain of morality, inherited from Sarah and therefore continually at
war with her, caused him to torture himself into a mental recognition
that her choice was for the best.
"That man never walked that had sense enough to pick out a wife,"
rejoined Sarah. "To think of a great hulkin' fellow like you losin' yo'
sense over a half mad will-o'-the-wisp that don't even come of decent
people. If she hadn't had eyes as big as saucers, do you reckon you'd
ever have turned twice to look at her?"
"For God's sake don't talk about her--she's not going to marry me," he
responded, and the admission of the truth he had so often repeated in
his own mind caused a pang of disbelief.
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