“Yes, I do,” he said decidedly. “I want you to think as badly of me as you possibly can. I want you to realize just what sort of a blackguard you had promised to marry, and when you've got that really clear in your mind, you'll be able to forget all about me and marry some cheerful young fool who hasn't been kicked out of the Army.”
“As long as I live I shall never—be able—to forget that I loved—a coward.” The words came haltingly from her lips. Then suddenly her shaking hands went up to her face, as though to shut him from her sight, and a dry, choking sob tore its way through her throat.
He made a swift stride towards her, then checked himself and stood motionless once more, in the utter quiescence of deliberately arrested movement. Only his hands, hanging stiffly at his sides, opened and shut convulsively, and his eyes should have been hidden. God never meant any man's eyes to wear that look of unspeakable torment.
When at last Sara withdrew her hands and looked at him again, his face was set like a mask, the lips drawn back a little from the teeth in a way that suggested a dumb animal in pain. But she was so hurt herself that she failed to recognize his infinitely greater hurt.
“I think—I think I hate you,” she whispered.
His taut muscles seemed to relax.
“I hope you do,” he said steadily. “It will be better so.”
Something in the quiet acceptance of his tone moved her to a softer, more wistful emotion.
“If it had been anything—anything but that, Garth, I think I could have borne it.”
There was a depth of appeal in the low-spoken words. But he ignored it, opposing a reckless indifference to her softened mood.