You want to pray God to make you a good wife. And
you ought to be thankful you have sensible relations to step in
and save you from yourself."
Susan tried to speak; her voice died in her throat. She made
another effort. "I don't want to," she said.
"Then what do you want to do--tell me that!" exclaimed her
uncle, rough again. For her manner was very moving, the more so
because there was none of the usual appeal to pity and to mercy.
She was silent.
"There isn't anything else for you to do."
"I want to--to stay here."
"Do you think Zeke'd harbor you--when you're about certain to up
and disgrace us as your mother did?"
"I haven't done anything wrong," said the girl dully.
"Don't you dare lie about that!"
"I've seen Ruth do the same with Artie Sinclair--and all the
girls with different boys."
"You miserable girl!" cried her uncle.
"I never heard it was so dreadful to let a boy kiss you."
"Don't pretend to be innocent. You know the difference between
that and what you did!"
Susan realized that when she had kissed Sam she had really loved
him. Perhaps that was the fatal difference. And her mother--the
sin there had been that she really loved while the man hadn't.
Yes, it must be so. Ruth's explanation of these mysteries had
been different; but then Ruth had also admitted that she knew
little about the matter--and Susan most doubted the part that
Ruth had assured her was certainly true.
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