It had been borne in upon her as
his monologue proceeded, that she would rather die than accept anything
from this man--anything of any kind. To fight him was the only thing.
Nothing else could prevail in the end. His was the service of the
unpenitent thief.
"And what is it you want to buy from me?" she asked evenly.
He did not notice, and he could not realize that ominous thing in her
voice and face. "I want to be friends with you. I want to see you here
in the woods, to meet you as you met Ingolby. I want to talk with you,
to hear you talk; to learn things from you I never learned before; to--"
She interrupted him with a swift gesture. "And then--after that? What
do you want at the end of it all? One cannot spend one's time talking
and wandering in the woods and teaching and learning. After that, what?"
"I have a house in Montreal," he said evasively. "I don't want to live
there alone." He laughed. "It's big enough for two, and at the end it
might be us two, if--"
With sharp anger, yet with coolness and dignity, she broke in on his
words. "Might be us two!" she exclaimed. "I have never thought of
making my home in a sewer.
Pages:
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177