To begin with--she's rather pleasant to look at,
don't you think?"
"I suppose she is."
"Hm! Rather poor taste not to be sure of it. Well, let it go. You've
always had rather queer taste in women, Jack; but, of course, being a
long-rider, you haven't seen much of them. At least her name is
delightful--Mary Brown! You've no idea how often I've repeated it
aloud to myself--Mary Brown!"
"I hate her!"
"You two didn't have a very agreeable time of it? By the way, she must
have left in rather a hurry to forget her glove, eh?"
"Yes, she ran--like a coward."
"Ah?" "Like a trembling coward. How can you care for a white-faced
little fool like that? Is she your match? Is she your mate?"
He considered a moment, as though to make sure that he did not
exaggerate.
"I love her, Jack, as men love water when they've ridden all day over
hot sand without a drop on their lips--you know when the tongue gets
thick and the mouth fills with cotton--and then you see clear, bright
water, and taste it?
"She is like that to me.
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