Myra rose. "I'll come again and straighten up in a day or two."
She turned back at the foot of the steps.
"Robin," she said, with a wistful, uncertain smile, "if Doris _does_
will you let me help you pick up the pieces?"
Hollister stared at her a second.
"God God!" he broke out. "Do you realize what you're saying?"
"Perfectly."
"You're a strange woman."
"Yes, I suppose I am," she returned. "But my strangeness is only an
acceptance, as a natural fact, of instincts and cravings and desires
that women are taught to repress. If I find that I've gone swinging
around an emotional circle and come back to the point, or the man,
where I started, why should I shrink from that, or from admitting
it--or from acting on it if it seemed good to me?"
She came back to where Hollister sat on the steps. She put her hand on
his knee, looked searchingly into his face. Her pansy-blue eyes met
his steadily. The expression in them stirred Hollister.
"Mind you, Robin, I don't think your Doris is superficial enough to be
repelled by a facial disfigurement.
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