Then he had thrown his face
into his pillow and left one ear for the reply.
"She is a clinger," returned Lemoyne. "She will cling until she is loosened
by something or somebody. Then she will cling to the second somebody as
hard as she did to the first. I'm not so sure that it's you as an
individual especially."
Cope had now no self-love to consider, no self-esteem to guard. He did not
raise his face from out the pillow to reply. But he found Lemoyne rather
drastic. Arthur had shown himself much in earnest, of course; he had the
right, doubtless, to be reproachful; and he was fertile in suggestions
looking toward his friend's freedom. Yet his expedients were not always
delicate or fair: Cope would have welcomed a lighter hand on his
exacerbated spirit, a more disinterested, more impartial touch. He was glad
when, one afternoon at five, a few days later, he met Randolph on the steps
of the library. Randolph, by his estimate, was disinterested and impartial.
The weather still held cold: it was no day for spending time,
conversationally, outside; and they stepped back for a little into a recess
of the vestibule.
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