“I saw a gray hair in the sunshine,” she said.
“A gray hair—a dozen—a hundred. My life is calculated to raise a few gray hairs.”
“But why—?”
“Why? Why—once on the downward path you can’t stop, my dear. However the path has led me to your arms, so common politeness should make me commend the road by which I came.”
“You are always good.”
“Good! great Heavens! No—only a silly girl would think that. Was I ever good? I’m sure I don’t know. If I was a woman soon knocked it out of me.”
“A woman! Did you love her?”
“Love her—of course I loved her.”
“More ‘n you do me?”
“More than I do you!—You’re only a little girl—and she—she was a woman of thirty, and she just wound me round her fingers,—her!”