“This time I will,” he taunted.
“I’d rather be dead,” she faltered. “I’d rather be dead than write it.”
“Perhaps! But would you rather have––” he made a backward jerk of his thumb toward the other room—“him dead?”
Jinnie’s eyes misted in agony, but Theodore was still near her in spirit, and she remembered the dear hours they had spent together and how much she loved him. A sudden swift passion shook her as his kisses lived warm again upon her face. That letter she would not write. But as she made this decision for the hundredth time that day, Morse’s words recurred to her. Would she rather have Bobbie dead? Yes, if she were dead too. But life was so hard to part with! She was so strong. How many times she had prayed of late to die! But every morning found her woefully and more miserably alive than the one before.
“I understand you’d rather, then,” drawled Morse.
“I don’t know what I’d rather have, only I can’t write the letter.” She made one rapid step toward him—“I know,” she went on feverishly, “I won’t ever see Theodore again––”
Morse’s emphatic nod broke off her words, but she went on courageously. “I don’t expect to, but I love him. Can’t you see that?”
“Quite evident,” replied the man.
“Why hurt me more than necessary then?” she demanded.