I'm one-fourth Italian--and they understand
everything. . . . You're fond of reading, aren't you?"
"It passes the time."
"While I was waiting for you I glanced at your new
books--Emerson--Dickens--Zola." He was looking toward the row of
paper backs that filled almost the whole length of the mantel.
"I must read them. I always like your books. You spend nearly
as much time reading as I do--and you don't need it, for you've
got a good education. What do you read for? To amuse yourself?"
"No."
"To get away from yourself?"
"No."
"Then why?" persisted he.
"To find out about myself."
He thought a moment, turned his face toward her. "You _are_
clever!" he said admiringly. "What's your game?"
"My game?"
"What are you aiming for? You've got too much sense not to be
aiming for something."
She looked at him; the expression that marked her as a person
peculiar and apart was glowing in her eyes like a bed of
red-hot coals covered with ashes.
"What?" he repeated.
"To get strong," replied she. "Women are born weak and bred
weaker. I've got to get over being a woman. For there isn't
any place in this world for a woman except under the shelter of
some man. And I don't want that." The underlying strength of
her features abruptly came into view. "And I won't have it,"
she added.
He laughed. "But the men'll never let _you_ be anything but a woman.
Pages:
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785