And something within her accused her own conviction.
The conviction was her real self, and the accusation was some other girl
lately born in her. Lucy did not like this new person. She was afraid of her.
She would not think of her unless she had to.
"I never cared for him--that way," she said, aloud. "I don't--I
couldn't--ever--I--I--love Lin Slone!"
The spoken thought--the sound of the words played havoc with Lucy's
self-conscious calmness. She burned. She trembled. She was in a rage with
herself. She spurred Sarchedon into a run and tore through the sage, down into
the valley, running him harder than she should have run him. Then she checked
him, and, penitent, petted him out of all proportion to her thoughtlessness.
The violent exercise only heated her blood and, if anything, increased this
sudden and new torment. Why had she discarded her boy's rider outfit and chaps
for a riding-habit made by her aunt, and one she had scorned to wear? Some
awful, accusing voice thundered in Lucy's burning ears that she had done this
because she was ashamed to face Lin Slone any more in that costume--she wanted
to appear different in his eyes, to look like a girl.
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