"I am not ashamed," said she. But she did not tell him that her
look came from an awful fear that he was about to make her
ashamed of him.
"No, I suppose you aren't," he went on, incensed by this further
evidence of her lack of a good woman's instincts. "I really
ought not to blame you. You were born wrong--born with the moral
sense left out."
"Yes, I suppose so," said she, wearily.
"If only you had lied to me--told me the one lie!" cried he.
"Then you wouldn't have destroyed my illusion. You wouldn't have
killed my love."
She grew deathly white; that was all.
"I don't mean that I don't love you still," he hurried on. "But
not in the same way. That's killed forever."
"Are there different ways of loving?" she asked.
"How can I give you the love of respect and trust--now?"
"Don't you trust me--any more?"
"I couldn't. I simply couldn't. It was hard enough before on
account of your birth. But now----Trust a woman who had been a--
a--I can't speak the word. Trust you? You don't understand a man."
"No, I don't." She looked round drearily. Everything in ruins.
Alone again. Outcast. Nowhere to go but the streets--the life
that seemed the only one for such as she. "I don't understand
people at all. . . . Do you want me to go?"
She had risen as she asked this. He was beside her instantly.
"Go!" he cried. "Why I couldn't get along without you.
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