Still, it sounds reasonable. I'm going to give it a try.
I've got to."
But he did not say why he must. Nor did Hollister ask him. He thought
he knew--and he wondered at the strange tenacity of this emotion which
Mills could not shake off. A deep-rooted passion for some particular
woman, an emotion which could not be crushed, was no mystery to
Hollister. He only wondered that it should be so vital a force in the
life of a man.
Mills came down from the hill camp to settle his account with
Hollister in the morning. He carried his blankets and his clothes in a
bulky pack on his sturdy shoulders. When he had his money, he rose to
go, to catch the coastwise steamer which touched the Inlet's head that
afternoon. Hollister helped him sling the pack, opened the door for
him,--and they met Myra Bland setting foot on the porch step.
They looked at each other, those two. Hollister knew that for a second
neither was conscious of him. Their eyes met in a lingering fixity,
each with a question that did not find utterance.
"I'm going out," Mills said at last.
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