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Wharton, Edith, 1862-1937

"The Custom of the Country"

Hang it, she SHALL, if you say so! Only be a little good
to me!"
Still she stood before him without speaking, aware that her implacable
brows and narrowed lips would hold him off as long as she chose.
"What's the matter. Undine? Why don't you answer? You know you can't go
back to that deadly dry-rot!"
She swept about on him with indignant eyes. "I can't go on with my
present life either. It's hateful--as hateful as the other. If I don't
go home I've got to decide on something different."
"What do you mean by 'something different'?" She was silent, and he
insisted: "Are you really thinking of marrying Chelles?"
She started as if he had surprised a secret. "I'll never forgive you if
you speak of it--"
"Good Lord! Good Lord!" he groaned.
She remained motionless, with lowered lids, and he went up to her and
pulled her about so that she faced him. "Undine, honour bright--do you
think he'll marry you?"
She looked at him with a sudden hardness in her eyes. "I really can't
discuss such things with you."
"Oh, for the Lord's sake don't take that tone! I don't half know what
I'm saying...but you mustn't throw yourself away a second time. I'll do
anything you want--I swear I will!"
A knock on the door sent them apart, and a servant entered with a
telegram.
Undine turned away to the window with the narrow blue slip. She was glad
of the interruption: the sense of what she had at stake made her want to
pause a moment and to draw breath.


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