"You do not
understand. Look at me, Gregory, and see if I can make you understand.
Your presence is painful to me. Your kisses hurt me. The memory of
them still burns my cheek, and my lips feel unclean. And why? Because
of women, which you may explain away? How little do you understand!
But shall I tell you?"
Voices of men came to her from down the river-bank, and the splashing
of water. She glanced quickly and saw Del Bishop guiding a poling-boat
against the current, and Corliss on the bank, bending to the tow-rope.
"Shall I tell you why, Gregory St. Vincent?" she said again. "Tell you
why your kisses have cheapened me? Because you broke the faith of food
and blanket. Because you broke salt with a man, and then watched that
man fight unequally for life without lifting your hand. Why, I had
rather you had died in defending him; the memory of you would have been
good. Yes, I had rather you had killed him yourself. At least, it
would have shown there was blood in your body."
"So this is what you would call love?" he began, scornfully, his
fretting, fuming devil beginning to rouse. "A fair-weather love,
truly. But, Lord, how we men learn!"
"I had thought you were well lessoned," she retorted; "what of the
other women?"
"But what do you intend to do?" he demanded, taking no notice. "I am
not an easy man to cross.
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