“I’m going away,” he said, sharply.
“Yes.”
“Do you care?” He went on, with greater intensity.
She only stared at him.
“You MUST care!” he exclaimed.
“Why?” she asked, dully.
“Why!... Because—because—” he stammered, angry with himself. After all, why should she care?
“I wish—you’d—left me—to die!” she moaned.
“Oh! Allie! Allie!” began Neale, in distress. Then he caught the different quality in her voice. It carried feeling. She was thinking again. He swore that he would overcome this malady of hers, and he grew keen, subtle, on fire with his resolve. He watched her. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her gently. She slid off the pile of buffalo robes to her knees before him. Then she showed the only hint of shyness he had ever noted in her. Perhaps it was fear. At any rate, she half averted her face, so that her loosened hair hid it.
“Allie! Allie! Listen! Have you nothing to LIVE for?” he asked.