"It's no use," he said. "You can't talk me out of it this time."
But she only smiled sadly and said, "I know that, Sam. I came to say good-bye."
"Good-bye?"
"You're leaving, aren't you?"
"Yes." He looked at the ground, studying the darkness.
"I'm sorry, Sam," she said. "We started out wrong. Maybe, if we tried again—"
But Sam said quickly, "No. I'm sorry too, but people don't change."
The remark startled him. He had used it occasionally to rationalize his position, had been convinced of its undeniable truth—yet suddenly he realized that he himself was its living denial. People could change, just as he had changed, just as Dorothy could change. It had been partly his fault when he first gave in to something he didn't want to do, and then to something else, and something else after that. He had helped dig the rut in which he had found himself, taking it for granted just as Dorothy had taken it for granted.
Her hair was soft in the same moonlight that had shone eight years before, and Sam Meecham felt a desire that had been too long unfulfilled.
"Dorothy, I—"