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Wharton, Edith, 1862-1937

"Summer"

She continued to sit motionless, a leaden weight upon
her lips.
"You and me have spoke some hard things to each other in our time,
Charity; and there's no good that I can see in any more talking now. But
I'll never feel any way but one about you; and if you say so we'll drive
down in time to catch that train, and go straight to the minister's
house; and when you come back home you'll come as Mrs. Royall."
His voice had the grave persuasive accent that had moved his hearers at
the Home Week festival; she had a sense of depths of mournful tolerance
under that easy tone. Her whole body began to tremble with the dread of
her own weakness.
"Oh, I can't----" she burst out desperately.
"Can't what?"
She herself did not know: she was not sure if she was rejecting what he
offered, or already struggling against the temptation of taking what
she no longer had a right to. She stood up, shaking and bewildered, and
began to speak:
"I know I ain't been fair to you always; but I want to be now.


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