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White, Stewart Edward, 1873-1946

"The Claim Jumpers"

"Now you have seen them, and there is nothing more to
conceal."
"I know, I know," he replied dully. "I am trying to think it out. I
can't see it yet."
They took entirely for granted that each knew the subject of the
other's thoughts. The girl seemed much the more self-possessed of the
two.
"We may as well understand each other," she said quietly, without
emotion. "You have told me a certain thing, and have asked me for a
certain answer. I could not give it to you before without deceiving
you. Now the answer depends on you. I have deceived you in a way," she
went on more earnestly, "but I did not mean to. I did not realize the
difference, truly I didn't, until I saw the girl on the train. Then I
knew the difference between her and me, and between her's and mine. And
when you turned away, I saw that you were her kind, and I saw, too,
that you ought to know everything there was about me. Then you spoke."
"I meant what I said, too," he interrupted. "You must believe that,
Mary, whatever comes."
"I was sorry you did," she went on, as though she had not heard him.
Then with just a touch of impatience tingeing the even calm of her
voice, "Oh, why will men insist on saying those things!" she cried.


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