"It is hard for her to hate any one."
"You think she—she might forgive?"
"I don't know. That remains to be seen."
The man buried his face in his arms and wept. This was not maudlin sentimentality; it struck deeper.
"Are you ready to do anything more than regret?" demanded Donaldson. "Are you ready to make a fight to quit that stuff?"
"So help me as long as I live—"
"Don't tell me that. I want you to think it over a while. I 'm going to have some one stay here with you until I get back this afternoon. Will you remain quiet?"
"Yes."
"And remember that even if by chance you did n't do much harm, still you struck. You struck a woman; you struck your sister."
Arsdale cringed. Each word was a harder blow than he, even in his madness, could strike.