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Summer | Edith Wharton | |
Chapter VIII |
Page 3 of 6 |
Charity listened in a cold trance of anger. It was nothing to her what the village said...but all this fingering of her dreams! "I've told you he didn't tell me anything. I didn't speak with him last night." "You didn't speak with him?" "No....It's not that I care what any of you say...but you may as well know. Things ain't between us the way you think...and the other people in this place. He was kind to me; he was my friend; and all of a sudden he stopped coming, and I knew it was you that done it-- YOU!" All her unreconciled memory of the past flamed out at him. "So I went there last night to find out what you'd said to him: that's all." Mr. Royall drew a heavy breath. "But, then--if he wasn't there, what were you doing there all that time?-- Charity, for pity's sake, tell me. I've got to know, to stop their talking." This pathetic abdication of all authority over her did not move her: she could feel only the outrage of his interference. "Can't you see that I don't care what anybody says? It's true I went there to see him; and he was in his room, and I stood outside for ever so long and watched him; but I dursn't go in for fear he'd think I'd come after him...." She felt her voice breaking, and gathered it up in a last defiance. "As long as I live I'll never forgive you!" she cried. Mr. Royall made no answer. He sat and pondered with sunken head, his veined hands clasped about the arms of his chair. Age seemed to have come down on him as winter comes on the hills after a storm. At length he looked up. |
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