It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. I like you very much, I haven’t known you enough to love you, no matter how worthy you are of love. “H’m!” he said, regarding the wreckage with a calmer visage. “Twenty-two. "Set your prisoner free!" returned Wood. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. His first reaction had been explosive as the hurts of the past rose up to taunt him. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. I’ve more than twice your strength and at least ten times your cunning, when it’s needed. The situation bothered him considerably. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. I don’t wish to marry you at all.
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