Ford sprang up from the bunk and faced her with stern questioning in
his eyes, but she only flushed a little under his scrutiny. Her eyes, he
noticed, were clear and steady, and they had in them something of that
courage which fears but will not flinch.
"I don't want to think of you!" he said, lowering his voice
unconsciously. "For the last month I've tried mighty hard not to think
of you. And if you want to know why--I'm married!"
She leaned back against the door and stared up at him with widening
pupils. Ford looked down and struck the jug with his toe. "That thing,"
he said slowly, "I've got to fight alone. I don't know which is going to
come out winner, me or the booze. I--don't--know." He lifted his head
and looked at her. "What did you come in here for?" he asked bluntly.
She caught her breath, but she would not dodge. Ford loved her for that.
"Dick told me--and I was--I wanted to--well, help. I thought I
might--sometimes when the climb is too steep, a hand will keep one
from--slipping."
"What made you want to help? You don't even like me." His tone was flat
and unemotional, but she did not seem able to meet his eyes.
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