XXVIII
Mary Harrison was reeling like a drunken person; she clutched at a chair. "Jim," she gasped, "what's to become of me?"
"You know that I'll always see that you are taken care of," he began.
"I don't—I don't mean that," she cried. "But, oh—I love you—I can't do without you! Where in Heaven's name am I to go?" and she flung herself upon him with a passionate cry. "What am I to do?" she cried, again and again. "How can I bear it?"
He strove to calm her. "Listen," he whispered, "don't take it so hard. Perhaps you may forget me—please don't act like that."
She was shuddering convulsively. "No, no!" she cried. "It would kill me—it would!" And then suddenly she leapt to her feet, her eyes blazing. "I'll kill that woman!" she panted. "That's what I'll do!"
The man drew her to him again, striving to calm her. "No, no, Mary," he said. "That will only make it worse for me. If you love me, you must give me up. That is the only way."
She sat there, white and trembling, moaning to herself. She smoothed the beautiful hair back from her forehead, and sat staring in front of her with a dazed expression.