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- Dean was not looking at Emily. He was leaning on the old sundial and scowling
- down at it with the air of a man who was forcing himself to say a disagreeable
- thing because he felt it was his duty.
- "I _won't_ be just a mere scribbler of pretty stories," cried Emily
- rebelliously. He looked into her face. She was as tall as he was—a trifle
- taller, though he would not admit it.
- "You do not need to be anything but what you are," he said in a low vibrant
- tone. "A woman such as this old New Moon has never seen before. You can do
- more with those eyes—that smile—than you can ever do with your pen."
- "You sound like Great-aunt Nancy Priest," said Emily cruelly and
- But had he not been cruel and contemptuous to her? Three o'clock that night
- found her wide-eyed and anguished. She had lain through sleepless hours face
- to face with two hateful convictions. One was that she could never do anything
- worth doing with her pen. The other was that she was going to lose Dean's
- friendship. For friendship was all she could give him and it would not satisfy
- him. She must hurt him. And oh, how could she hurt Dean whom life had used so
- cruelly? She had said "no" to Andrew Murray and laughed a refusal to Perry
- Miller without a qualm. But this was an utterly different thing.
- Emily sat up in bed in the darkness and moaned in a despair that was none the
- less real and painful because of the indisputable fact that thirty years later
- she might be wondering what on earth she had been moaning about.
- "I wish there were no such things as lovers and love-making in the world," she
- said with savage intensity, honestly believing she meant it.