Of course there was quarreling between us, bitter quarreling, and we said things to one another—long pent-up things that bruised and crushed and cut. But over it all in my memory now is an effect of deliberate confrontation, and the figure of Marion stands up, pale, melancholy, tear-stained, injured, implacable and dignified.
“You love her?” she asked once, and jerked that doubt into my mind.
I struggled with tangled ideas and emotions. “I don’t know what love is. It’s all sorts of things—it’s made of a dozen strands twisted in a thousand ways.”
“But you want her? You want her now—when you think of her?”
“Yes,” I reflected. “I want her—right enough.”
“And me? Where do I come in?”
“I suppose you come in here.”
“Well, but what are you going to do?”
“Do!” I said with the exasperation
