Then suddenly the tears came in a
quick hot gush, and she hid her face in her hands. "Oh, Ronald, Ronald--it
is you who do not know," she sobbed.
Ronald did not quite know what to do; he never did when Joe cried, but
fortunately that disaster had not occurred often since he was very small.
He was angry with himself for having disturbed and hurt her, but he did
not know what to do, most probably because he did not really love her.
"Joe," he said, looking at her in some embarrassment, "don't!" Then he
rose and rather timidly laid a hand on her shoulder. But she shrank from
him with a petulant motion, and the tears trickled through her small white
hands and fell upon her dark dress and on the "Life of Rufus Choate."
"Joe, dear"--Ronald began again. And then, in great uncertainty of mind,
he went and looked out of the window. Presently he came back and stood
before her once more.
"I am awfully sorry I said it, Joe. Please forgive me. You don't often
cry, you know, and so"--He hesitated.
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