“Yes, I’m sick here.” She laid her hand upon her heart.
He sat down beside her and stroked the streaked brown hair timidly.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently.
She felt the sympathy in his touch, and was quick to respond to it.
“Oh, pardner,” she said, “I just feel awful!”
“I’m sorry, Susie,” he said again.
“Did your mother ever go back on you, pardner?”
McArthur shook his head gravely.
“No, Susie.”
“It’s terrible. I can’t tell you hardly how it is; but it’s like everybody that you ever cared for in the world had died. It’s like standin’ over a quicksand and feelin’ yourself goin’ down. It’s like the dreams when you wake up screamin’ and you have to tell yourself over and over it isn’t so—except that I have to tell myself over and over it is so.”