"I never was. I always hated him."
She told her lie with unscrupulous directness. He did not believe her;
but what did that matter! It was no reason why he should put her at a
disadvantage, and, strangely enough, he did not feel any contempt for her
because she told the lie, nor because she had once cared for Castine.
Probably in those days she had never known anybody who was very much
superior to Castine. She was in love with himself now; that was enough,
or nearly enough, and there was no particular reason why he should demand
more from her than she demanded from him. She was lying to him now
because--well, because she loved him. Like the majority of men, when
women who love them have lied to them so, they have seen in it a
compliment as strong as the act was weak. It was more to him now that
this girl should love him than that she should be upright, or moral, or
truthful. Such is the egotism and vanity of such men.
"Well, he owes me several years of life. I put in a bad hour that
night."
He knew that "several years of life" was a misstatement; but, then, they
were both sinners.
Her eyes flashed, she stamped her foot, and her fingers clinched.
"I wish I'd killed him when I killed his bear!" she said.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31