There was only one thing for him to do, and he did it; he supported
me with an arm about my waist.
"Miss Dement, are you ill?" he said.
It was not an exclamation; there was neither alarm nor solicitude
in it. If he had added: "I suppose that is about what I am
expected to say," he would hardly have expressed his sense of the
situation more clearly. His manner filled me with shame and
indignation, for I was suffering acutely. I wrenched my hand out
of his, grasped the arm supporting me, and, pushing myself free,
fell plump into the sand and sat helpless. My hat had fallen off
in the struggle, and my hair tumbled about my face and shoulders in
the most mortifying way.
"Go away from me," I cried, half choking. "Oh, PLEASE go away,
you--you Thug! How dare you think THAT when my leg is asleep?"
I actually said those identical words! And then I broke down and
sobbed. Irene, I BLUBBERED!
His manner altered in an instant--I could see that much through my
fingers and hair. He dropped on one knee beside me, parted the
tangle of hair, and said, in the tenderest way: My poor girl, God
knows I have not intended to pain you.
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