She's never
seen a man yet except me. She'd soon forget me. She's such a kid."
Nevertheless when he thought of beginning that old wandering life
again he shrank back. He had hated it--Oh! how he'd hated it! And he
didn't want to leave Maggie. He was in reality beginning to believe
that with her he might pull himself right out of this morass of
weakness and indecision in which he had been wallowing for years.
And yet what sort of a life could he offer her? He did not believe
that he would ever now be able to find this other woman whom he had
married, and until he had found her and divorced her Maggie's
position would be impossible. She, knowing nothing of the world,
could disregard it, but HE knew, knew that daily, hourly recurrence
of alights and insults and disappointments, knew what that life
could make after a time of women in such a position; even though she
did not mind he would mind for her and would reproach himself
continually.
No, it was impossible. He must go away secretly, without telling her
. . . Then, at that, he was pulled up again by the thought of his
father. He could not leave him until this crisis, whatever it might
be, was over.
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