WAR
one twist of his thumb and finger, could take the head off of me you love—"
She sighs and is silent for a while.
"—or off of you—or Jon—"
Another and worse sigh, and more silence.
"—or Dave—whom I love!"
"Come back," says I, "and fetch the dictionary with you!"
But she just goes on—holding hard to the side of the stair, drooping her nice head, as if it was about all she could bear.
"Wi—wouldn't you keep on trying to please the brute—even though you suffered—oh, suffered hell itself—died—so as to keep him from me? I mean from you-all?"
"I don't understand, dear," says I, as kind as possible—for I never saw her so worked up. "But if it's trouble, let your old daddy—yes, and Jon and Dave, too, help you!"
"And suppose," she goes on, "that was just the hell of it, as you said—that you couldn't—daren't—call on them to help you—the, the only ones who would! Suppose that merely
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