And I've
squandered enough of your money. I feel like a thief sometimes when I
watch you work. You must hate me. Do you, Robin?"
Hollister stirred the snow absently with the pike-pole point. He tried
to analyze his feelings, and he found it difficult.
"I don't think so," he said at last. "I'm rather indifferent. If you
meddled with things I'd not only hate you, I think I would want to
destroy you. But you needn't worry about the money. If Bland doesn't
repay the hundred dollars it won't break me. I won't lend him any more
if it disturbs you. But that doesn't matter. The only thing that
matters is whether you are going to upset everything in some rash mood
that you may sometime have."
"Do you think I might do that?"
"How do I know what you may do?" he returned. "You threw me into the
discard when your fancy turned to some one else. You followed your own
bent with a certain haste as soon as I was reported dead. I had ceased
to be man enough for you, but my money was still good enough for you.
When I recall those things, I think I can safely say that I haven't
the least idea what you may do next.
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