And even when she
laughed with a negro gardener, or even those few times in her life
when people saw her weep, Isabel had a proud look--something that was
independent and graceful and strong. But she did not have it now: she
leaned against the wall, beside his dressing-table, and seemed beset
with humility and with weakness. Her head drooped.
"What answer are you going to make to such a letter?" George
demanded, like a judge on the bench.
"I--I don't quite know, dear," she murmured.
"Wait," she begged him. "I'm so--confused."
"I want to know what you're going to write him. Do you think if you
did what he wants you to I could bear to stay another day in this
town, mother? Do you think I could ever bear even to see you again if
you married him? I'd want to, but you surely know I just--couldn't!"
She made a futile gesture, and seemed to breathe with difficulty.
"I--I wasn't--quite sure," she faltered, "about--about it's being wise
for us to be married--even before knowing how you feel about it. I
wasn't even sure it was quite fair to--to Eugene.
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