At that moment, Summerhay
meant absolutely what he said. The girl was nothing to him! If she was
pursuing him, how could he help it? And he could not make Gyp believe
it! How awful! How truly terrible! How unjust and unreasonable of her!
And why? What had he done that she should be so unbelieving--should
think him such a shallow scoundrel? Could he help the girl's
kissing him? Help her being fond of him? Help having a man's nature?
Unreasonable, unjust, ungenerous! And giving her a furious look, he went
out.
He went down to his study, flung himself on the sofa and turned his face
to the wall. Devilish! But he had not been there five minutes before
his anger seemed childish and evaporated into the chill of deadly and
insistent fear. He was perceiving himself up against much more than a
mere incident, up against her nature--its pride and scepticism--yes--and
the very depth and singleness of her love. While she wanted nothing but
him, he wanted and took so much else. He perceived this but dimly, as
part of that feeling that he could not break through, of the irritable
longing to put his head down and butt his way out, no matter what the
obstacles. What was coming? How long was this state of things to last?
He got up and began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind him, his
head thrown back; and every now and then he shook that head, trying to
free it from this feeling of being held in chancery.
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