“You shall not evade me. Do you think you can put me off with defences and puling arguments of necessity, or policy, or the sacredness of property? No. You and I are here looking at naked truth. I will go down into your very soul and have it out by the roots, the naked truth. But I will have my answer. Are you that same man?
“If you are not that same man; if you have killed that in you which gave life to that man; if that man no longer lives in you; if you are not capable of being that same man with the heart of a great and tender hero, then tell me and I will go. But you shall answer me. I will have my answer.”
Clifford Stanton rose heavily from his chair and stood trembling as though in an overpowering rage, and visibly struggling for his command of mind and tongue.
“Words, words, words,” he groaned at last. “Your life is made of words. Words are your coin. What do you know?
“Do you think that words can go down into my soul to find the man that was once there? Do you think that words can call him up? When did words ever mean anything to a man’s real heart! You come here with your question. It’s made of words.
“When did men ever do anything for words? Honour is a word. Truth is a word. Bravery is a word. Loyalty is a word. Hero is a word. Do you think men do things for words? No! What do you know? What could you know?
“Men do things and you call them by words. But do they do them for the words? No!
“They do them–– Because some woman lives, or once lived! What do you know?
“Go out there. Stay there.” He pointed. “I’ve got to think.”