“Tell me, if you can, that you have n’t cared for me a bit; not at any time. You see,” he added with conviction but without triumph, “you can’t!”
“If I had ever cried—in my life—since I was a child—I think—I should cry now,” she said, in little, uneven sections of speech.
“Marcia!” All the anger passed away from Jem, leaving him shaken. “Don’t feel that way. What has happened? What have I done to change you toward me?”
“I cannot tell you—more than I have told you.”
“Try,” he urged. “Let’s have it out!”
“I am not clever at explaining. Not—not such things as this. There is something that rises up inside and—and forbids. Oh, Jem! You must know, without my putting it into words.”
“It’s that cursed Wade story, of course. But that’s because you don’t understand. Surely, between you and me a—a petty little matter such as that—”
“Petty!”
“Why, Marcia, it’s just part of the day’s work. Ask any newspaper man. Ask Andrew Galpin.”
“Who has perhaps half-spoiled his life by defending his friend.”