"Am I, then," he stammered out; "--am I, then, so like any of the
others, up at Engelbaum's?"
"Calm yourself, O beloved," said Santa, brushing her finger-nails,
gipsy-wise and soft as butterflies, over, the strings of her guitar.
"Calm yourself, and hearken. You are all the world to me, and you
know it. Yet there is something--something I could explain to you
better, maybe, if I knew English better . . . and yet I am not sure.
. . . Let me try, however. . . . It always seems to me with you
English, you Americans, you white-skinned men--with all the ones I
have known--that the fault is not all mine when I find you alike just
at first; that every one of you ought to be a man quite different
from all other men; that you, of your race--yes, every one--were
meant for something you have missed--were meant to be--Oh, what is
the word?"
"'Distinguished?'" suggested Farrell, standing up. "I never was
that, Santa--though, back in England, at one time, I had a notion to
make some sort of a mark."
Santa let the neck of the guitar fall back against her breast and
clasped her hands suddenly.
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