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Lillibridge, Will (William Otis), 1878-1909

"Where the Trail Divides"

To answer your question, I really don't know."
"Bess!" The man was upon his feet, his face twitching. "I'll stand a lot
from you, but there's a limit--"
"Sit down, please," evenly. "It's wasted absolutely. There's not a soul
but myself to see; and I'm not looking. Please be seated."
From his height the man looked down at her; at first angrily,
resentfully--then with an expression wherein surprise and unbelief were
mingled. He sat down.
The girl's eyes left the dot on the horizon, moved on and on.
"As I was saying," she continued, "I don't know. I'd give my soul, if I
have one, to know; but I have no one with whom to make the exchange, no
one who can give me light. Does that answer your question?"
Her companion stared at her, and forgot himself.
"Yes, it answers the now. But why did you marry him?"
"You really wish to know?" Again the lips were twitching.
"Yes."
"You're very hungry for compliments. You yourself are why."
No answer, only silence.
"You've seen a coursing, haven't you?" wandered on the girl. "A little
tired rabbit with a great mongrel pack in pursuit? You're not plural,
but nevertheless you personified that pack. You and the unknown things
you represented were pressing me close. I was confused and afraid. I was
a babe four months ago. I was not afraid of How, I had loved him--at
least I thought I had, I'm sure of nothing now--and, as I say, I was
afraid of you--then.


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