I wish you
would make love to me. You sit there looking like Dante with a beard, as
cold as ice."
"I am very sorry," he answered, startled from a reverie. "I know I am a
failure in such sort of ways. What do you want me to say?"
This was not promising, and her annoyance increased.
"I want you to tell me you love me--over and over again," she whispered,
controlling her voice.
"Women always ask these questions," he said to gain time. "They never
take anything for granted as men do."
"No!" she flashed. "Not when a man's actions point to the possibility of
several other interpretations of his sentiments--then they want words to
console them. But you give me neither."
"I am not a demonstrative person," he responded. "I will do all I can to
make you happy, but do not ask me for impossibilities. You will have to
put up with me as I am."
"I shall decide that!" And she snatched away her hand angrily, and then
controlled herself--the moment had not yet come. He should not have
freedom, which now she felt he craved; he should remain tied until he
had at all events paid the last price of humiliation.
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