A wild fear struggled with his
anger, but he kept repeating, "No, no," and then, "At any rate, she will
tell me the truth." She had never lied to him; she would not dare; he
clenched his hands, murder in his heart.
Slowly and more slowly he ran. He knew where she was--where she must be,
waiting. And yet as he drew near huge hands held him back, and heavy
weights clogged his feet. His heart said: "On! quick! She will tell the
truth, and all will be well." His mind said: "Slow, slow; this is the
end." He hurled the thought aside, and crashed through the barrier.
She was standing still and listening, with a huge basket of the piled
froth of the field upon her head. One long brown arm, tender with
curvings, balanced the cotton; the other, poised, balanced the slim
swaying body. Bending she listened, her eyes shining, her lips apart,
her bosom fluttering at the well-known step.
He burst into her view with the fury of a beast, rending the wood away
and trampling the underbrush, reeling and muttering until he saw her.
She looked at him. Her hands dropped, she stood very still with drawn
face, grayish-brown, both hands unconsciously out-stretched, and the
cotton swaying, while deep down in her eyes, dimly, slowly, a horror lit
and grew. He paused a moment, then came slowly onward doggedly,
drunkenly, with torn clothes, flying collar, and red eyes.
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