She, too, was sure that Rose would capitulate to
him. She felt a deep sympathy for the girl. Martin had said it
himself--he was too old for her. Her happiness lay with youth.
And yet, how could one be so certain? Love was so illusive, so
capricious! Did it really bow to the accident of years? Had she,
Rose Wade, the right to snatch from anyone's hands the most
precious gift of life? Wouldn't she have sold her very soul, at
one time, to have had Martin care for her like this? Oh, if the
child were wise she would not hesitate! She would drink her cup
of joy while it was held out to her brimming full. A strange
conclusion for a staid churchwoman like Mrs. Wade, but her rich
humanity transcended all her training. She wondered if there
could be anything in the belief that there was waiting somewhere
for each soul just one other. There were people, she knew, who
thought that. Rose had drawn out all that was finest in
Martin--she had transformed him into a lover, and if she wanted
the man, himself, she could have him. But, decided his wife, he
could not take with him the things which her sweat and blood had
helped to create. She would give him a divorce, but her terms
would be as brutal as the Martin with whom she had lived these
twenty years, and who now took it for granted that she would let
him do whatever he chose. She was to be made to step aside, was
she, with no weapon with which to strike back and no armor with
which to protect herself? Well, there was one way she might hit
him --one.
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