“And you would not—not take me—Johnny, without love?” she asked, and her voice trembled.
“Joan, I—I don’t understand. I am a foolish, dense fellow, dear, and I don’t understand!”
She turned to him, and now her eyes met his frankly, and never had he seen them so soft, so tender, so filled with a strange and wonderful light, the light that is born of tenderness and sympathy and kindliness.
“Would you make me your wife, Johnny, knowing that I—I do not love you as a woman should love the man she takes for her husband.”
“I—I would try to teach you, dear. I would try to win a little of your heart.”
“And that would content you, Johnny?”
“It must. I dare not ask too much, and I—I—love you so!”
(“I glory in it. I take not one word of it lack!”)
Hateful words, words she could never forget, that came back to torture and fill her with a sense of shame. Strange that they were dinning in her memory, even now.
(“I glory in it. I take not one word back!”)