" But a child can
suffer and can triumph as a man or a woman, yet remain a child.
Like man and woman it can hate, envy, malign, cheat, lie,
tyrannize; or bless, cheer, defend, drop its pitying tears, pour
out its heroic spirit. Love alone among the passions parts the two
eternities of a lifetime. The instant it is born, the child which
was its parent is dead.
As Marguerite suddenly ceased speaking, frightened by the secret
import of her own words, her skin, which had the satinlike fineness
and sheen of white poppy leaves, became dyed from brow to breast
with a surging flame of rose. She turned partly away from Barbee,
and she waited for him to go.
He looked at her a moment with torment in his eyes; then, lifting
his hat without a word, he turned and walked proudly down the
street toward his office.
Marguerite did not send a glance after him. What can make us so
cruel to those who vainly love us as our vain love of some one
else? What do we care for their suffering? We see it in their
faces, hear it in their speech, feel it as the tragedy of their
lives. But we turn away from them unmoved and cry out at the
heartlessness of those whom our own faces and words and sorrow do
not touch.
She lowered her parasol, and pressing her palm against one cheek
and then the other, to force back the betraying blood, hurried
agitated and elated into the library. A new kind of excitement
filled her: she had confessed her secret, had proved her fidelity
to him she loved by turning off the playmate of childhood.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200