"But, Ollie dear! But, Ollie, I never meant it that way. But Ollie, I love
you!"
He takes her in his arms again and they kiss long. This time though there
is no peace in the kiss, only the lost passion of bodies tired beyond
speech. "Do you love me, Nancy?"
Again she has to decide--and the truth that will not matter for more than
the hour wins. Besides, he has hurt her.
"Oh, Ollie, Ollie, yes, but--"
"You're not sure any more?"
"It's different."
"It's not being certain?"
"Not the way it was at first--but, Ollie, we're neither of us the same--"
"Then you _aren't_ sure?"
"I can't--I haven't--oh, Ollie, I don't know, I don't know!"
"That means you know."
Again the kiss but this time their lips only hurt against each
other--Oliver feels for a ghastly instant as if he were kissing Nancy after
she had died. It seems to him that everything in him has made itself into a
question as discordant and unanswered as the tearing cry of a puppy baying
the moon, struck out of his senses by that swimming round silver above him,
ineffably lustrous, ineffably removed, none of it ever coming to touch him
but light too pale to help at all.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94