virgin soil, this first profound love gushed upward from her being to embrace the hot sun of his passion.
With Renny it was very different. A man who had loved women both casually and licentiously, who could not speak their language, who had thought to have and craved to have no other sort of feelings toward them, he felt himself betrayed by this new and subtle passion that went deeper than mere possession, that could not be gratified and forgotten. In his eyes was something of the bewilderment of the animal that finds itself wounded, unable to exercise the faculties which had been its chief delight. Love, which had hitherto been to him as a drink of fresh water, now tasted of the bitter salt of renunciation.
He muttered again: "There is no way out."
She said, almost in a whisper: "No, I suppose there is nothing to be done."
It was as though a traveler, pointing to the rising moon, had said to another: "There is no moon."
He caught that strange denial of her words in her tone. Looking into her face, he perceived the warmth and pathos there. He exclaimed, with a groan: "I would cut everything—take you away, if only—he were not my brother!"
In an odd, choking voice that seemed to come from a long way off, she reminded him: "Your half-brother."
"I never think of that," he said, coldly. His attachment to his brothers was so tenacious that it always had annoyed him to hear them spoken of as half-brothers.
After a moment of silence that seemed made manifest by a veil of wood smoke that rose and hung over them for a space, she said, with a tremor in her voice: "I will do whatever you tell me to."
"I believe you would," he answered. With sudden realization, he knew that her life was to her as important
