“Freckles, I—I'm trying to make love to you. Oh, can't you help me only a little bit? It's awful hard all alone! I don't know how, when I really mean it, but Freckles, I love you. I must have you, and now I guess—I guess maybe I'd better kiss you next.”
She lifted her shamed face and bravely laid her feverish, quivering lips on his. Her breath, like clover-bloom, was in his nostrils, and her hair touched his face. Then she looked into his eyes with reproach.
“Freckles,” she panted, “Freckles! I didn't think it was in you to be mean!”
“Mean, Angel! Mean to you?” gasped Freckles.
“Yes,” said the Angel. “Downright mean. When I kiss you, if you had any mercy at all you'd kiss back, just a little bit.”
Freckles' sinewy fist knotted into the coverlet. His chin pointed ceilingward while his head rocked on the pillow.
“Oh, Jesus!” burst from him in agony. “You ain't the only one that was crucified!”
The Angel caught Freckles' hand and carried it to her breast.
“Freckles!” she wailed in terror, “Freckles! It is a mistake? Is it that you don't want me?”
Freckles' head rolled on in wordless suffering.