For she was more than a child, she was a beautiful woman, and
everything surrounding her was beautiful. And there had been a great
many gray years before I met Perry and before the money came which made
pleasant living possible.
"I like you because you are strong," was another of her tributes.
"How do you know I am strong?"
"Well, you look it. And not many men could have carried me so easily
up-stairs."
She had sprained her ankle in getting out of my car on the night that we
had dined at the country club. She had worn high-heeled slippers and had
stepped on a pebble.
It was on that night that I first faced the fact that I cared for her.
In my arms she had clung to me like a child, her hair had swept my
cheek, there had been the fragrance of violets.
I did not want to care for her. I remembered Perry--the burned toast
which had seemed to mark the beginning of their tragedy--those last
dreadful days. I knew that Perry's fate would not be mine; there would
be no need to sell bread to buy hyacinths. There was money enough and to
spare, money to let her live in the enjoyment of the things she craved;
money enough to--travel.
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