Then the thought of her appeal to old
John Wambush and the lies she had told that night to save her lover
struck him like a blow in the face, and he felt himself turning cold
all over in the embrace of utter despair. "No, no, no!" he said, in
his heart, "she's not for me! I could never forget that--never! I've
always felt that the woman I loved must never have loved before, and
Wambush--ugh!"
She raised her great eyes to his in the mellow firelight, and then, as
if puzzled by his expression, calmly studied his face.
"You are not going back to that room over the stable, are you?" she
questioned.
"Yes, to-morrow night."
"Don't do it--it is not comfortable; it is awfully roomy and bare and
cold."
"Oh, I am used to that. Many a time I've slept out in the open air on
a frosty night, with nothing round me but a blanket."
"You could occupy this room whenever it suited you; it is seldom used.
I heard mother say yesterday that she wished you would."
"I'd better stay there," he answered, moved again by her irresistible
solicitude, and that other thing in her tone to which he had laid claim
and hugged to his bruised heart.
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