"Yes, but one can care in different ways, and you have done so many
things for me."
The man drew in his breath sharply. The knife was in her hand now, but
she had stabbed unconsciously. He knew that she spoke quite simply,
thinking only of his care for her physical well-being.
Truly he had done things, things that he would have given several years
of life to undo.
Now he had that for which he craved,--the assurance that she cared,
that she would miss him. Still he did not delude himself. He knew
that what she felt towards him was not the love between a woman and her
mate, but the affection of dependence, of habit. Yet for such as it
was his soul uttered thanksgiving. Any other woman gifted with a less
sweet nature would have felt for him nothing but hatred, but in
Fatalite's mind neither spite nor malice ever found a place. The petty
vices of womankind had never been hers. He knew now that he had been
something to her, and that knowledge would make sunshine for him even
in the shadow of a prison. It gave him courage also to play out the
tragi-comedy to the end, to make a brave jest, to lie convincingly.
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