"Women like
to play with love, I think. But you can't play with me. I want
you. And I'm going to have you. Unless you hate me. But you
don't. I'd stake my life on it." And he kissed her again.
Evadna reached up, felt for her hat, and began pulling it
straight, and Good Indian, recalled to himself by the action,
released her with manifest reluctance. He felt then that he
ought never to let her go out of his arms; it was the only way,
it seemed to him, that he could be sure of her. Evadna found
words to express her thoughts, and her thoughts were as wholly
conventional as was the impulse to straighten her hat.
"We've only known each other a week!" she cried tremulously,
while her gloved fingers felt inquiringly for loosened hairpins.
"You've no right--you're perfectly horrid! You take everything
for granted--"
Good Indian laughed at her, a laugh of pure, elemental joy in
life and in love.
"A man's heart does not beat by the calendar. Nature made the
heart to beat with love, ages before man measured time, and
prattled of hours and days and weeks," he retorted.
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