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Smith, Alice Prescott

"Montlivet"

"
My pity of the moment before was gone like vapor. I looked up from my
canoe, and took the man's measure. "I think not. You loved something,
I grant. Her wit, perhaps, her money, the pleasure she gave your
epicure's taste. But you did not love her, the woman. My God, if you
loved her how could you endure to scatter her likeness broadcast among
the savages as you did? To make that profile, that mouth, that chin,
the jest and property of a greasy Indian! No, you shall not see my
wife, monsieur."
He changed no line at my outburst. "Then I shall follow by force. I
shall sit here till you move, monsieur."
I shrugged. "A rash promise. Are your provisions close at hand?"
He looked at me steadfastly. "Then you absolutely refuse to take me to
her?"
"I refuse."
"Yet I shall reach her."
I took moss from my pocket and calked a seam with some precision. I
did not speak.
"You think that I cannot reach her?"
I smiled. There was a womanish vein in the man that he should press me
in this fashion for a useless answer. I began to see his weakness as
well as his obvious strength. I waited till he asked yet again.
"You think that I shall not be able to reach your wife, monsieur?"
And then I shrugged and examined him over my pipe-bowl.


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