She's been ashamed of
my Indian blood all along; she said so. And I'm not a good
lover; I neglected her all the while this trouble lasted, and I
paid more attention to Georgie Howard than I did to her--and I
didn't satisfactorily explain about that hair and knife that
Hagar had. And--oh, it isn't the killing, altogether! I guess we
were both a good deal mistaken in our feelings."
"Well, I hope so," sighed Phoebe, wondering secretly at the
decadence of love. An emotion that could burn high and hot in a
week, flare bravely for a like space, and die out with no seared
heart to pay for the extravagance--she shook her head at it.
That was not what she had been taught to call love, and she
wondered how a man and a maid could be mistaken about so vital an
emotion.
"I suppose," she added with unusual sarcasm for her, "you'll be
falling in love with Georgie Howard, next thing anybody knows;
and maybe that will last a week or ten days before you find out
you were MISTAKEN!"
Good Indian gave her one of his quick, sidelong glances.
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