If I had been more real with that girl in New York, I wonder whether she
wouldn't have stuck to me? When I was with her I could always convince
her; but, I remember, she told me once that, when I was away from her,
she somehow felt that I didn't really love her. That's always been the
way. When I was with people, they liked me; when I was away from them,
I couldn't depend upon them. No; upon my soul, of all the friends I've
ever had, there's not one that I know of that I could go to now--except
my sister, poor girl!--and feel sure that no matter what I did, they'd
stick to me to the end. I suppose the fault is mine. If I'd been worth
the standing by, I'd have been the better stood by. But this girl, this
little French provincial, with a heart of fire and gold, with a touch of
sin in her, and a thumping artery of truth, she would walk with me to the
gallows, and give her life to save my life--yes, a hundred times. Well,
then, I'll start over again; for I've found the real thing. I'll be true
to her just as long as she's true to me. I'll never lie to her; and I'll
do something else--something else. I'll tell her--"
He reached out, picked a wild rose from the vine upon the wall, and
fastened it in his button-hole, with a defiant sort of smile, as there
came a tap to his door.
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