She bared herself to the thighs. She
went into the pool thigh-deep. Whiter than the lilies which she went to
save, she raked the weed from them--you helping her."
"She did," said Senhouse, his eyes searching the fire. "And when,
afterwards, she did what her heart bade her, she never faltered either,
though she steeped her pure soul in foulness compared to which the black
water was sweet. But do you suppose that any evil handling would stain
her? You fool! You are incapable of seeing a good woman. In the same
breath with which I spurned myself for having a moment's fear for her, I
thanked God for having let me witness her action."
The rebuke was accepted, not because it was felt to be justified; but
rather, it passed unheeded. The stranger had questions to ply.
"Knowing her, loving her--loveworthy as she was--how could you leave her?"
"I beg your pardon," said Senhouse, "I have never left her." But in the
next breath he had to qualify his paradox.
He spoke vehemently. "I had of her all that I dared have. That has never
left me. I had all that she could give me--she that was self-sufficing,
not to be imparted. She did not love me, as you could understand love: I
don't think she could love anybody.
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