"That was the devil in me. Only it's true."
"How can it be true when you never asked--said a word--you hinted of?"
she queried. "Diane believed what you said. I know she thinks me
horrid."
"No she doesn't. As for what I said, or meant to say, which is the same
thing, how'd you take my actions? I hope not the same as you take
Wright's or the other fellow's."
Sally was silent, a little pale now, and I saw that I did not need to
say any more about the other fellows. The change, the difference was now
marked. It drove me to give in wholly to this earnest and passionate
side of myself.
"Sally, I do love you. I don't know how you took my actions. Anyway, now
I'll make them plain. I was beside myself with love and jealousy. Will
you marry me?"
She did not answer. But the old willful Sally was not in evidence.
Watching her face I gave her a slow and gentle pull, one she could
easily resist if she cared to, and she slipped from her saddle into my
arms.
Then there was one wildly sweet moment in which I had the blissful
certainty that she kissed me of her own accord. She was abashed, yet
yielding; she let herself go, yet seemed not utterly unstrung. Perhaps
I was rough, held her too hard, for she cried out a little.
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