Hamilton, Donald - Novel 02
Page 22
“Don’t,” he said sharply.
“Why don’t you go?” she gasped. “Do you have to make a speech at me, too? Can’t you just leave? Don’t you think I know what kind of a coward and hypocrite I am without being told?”
He reached her and took her by the shoulders. “Don’t,” he said. “Please don’t, Ann.”
He saw that her eyes, looking up at him, had become darker than the color of her dress.
“You mustn’t touch me,” she said childishly. “I told you once before, you mustn’t touch me unless you—”
Then she was in his arms, crying softly. He stroked her hair back with the tips of his fingers. A conventional part of his mind had made the conventional judgment, saying harshly that what she had done was unforgivable, but the voice did not carry conviction. You could not live in a world where weakness was unforgivable, when you did not know how strong you yourself were.
“You’ve had a permanent,” he said after a while.
“No, just set,” she whispered.
“I like you fluffy better,” he said. “You look too damn expensive like that. I only make a few thousand a year.”
She was silent, motionless in his arms. He could feel her mind retreat from him.
“You can’t want me,” she said.
“You’re thinking of guys like Stevens,” he said. “He was an aviator, shot down; he went through it; he knew what it was all about. Maybe he had a right to judge. What right have I to judge, darling? I’m the character who never went to war. How can I tell you how brave you should have been, when I don’t even know how brave I am myself?”
You could not help what you saw in the steel mirror, and the mirror would not break. There were those who could be proud of what they had seen in it—and then there were the others, who simply had to live with it.