"Besides, I wanted to ask you a question," said Florence. "I had
to ask it. I couldn't sleep without asking it, Frank."
"I would have come, if you had sent for me," he said.
"I couldn't wait for that," she returned. "I knew it might be hard
for you to leave--or impossible."
"What is it, Florence?" he asked. The name slipped out in spite of
him.
She looked at him strangely, her lustrous eyes wide open and
bright with her unsaid thoughts.
"Are you very fond of her, Frank?" she asked.
"Her? Who?" he exclaimed. "You don't mean Cassie Derwent?"
"Yes," she said.
"Of course I'm fond of her," he said.
"More than you are of me, Frank?" she persisted.
"Oh, it isn't the same sort of thing, Florence," he said. "I never
even thought of comparing you and her together. Surely you know
that? Surely you understand that?"
"You used to--to love me once, Frank," she said, with a stifled
sob. "Has she made it any less? Has she robbed me, Frank? Have I
lost you without knowing it?"
"No," he said, "no, a thousand times, no!"
"Tell me that you love me, Frank," she burst out. "Tell me, tell
me!" Then, as he did not answer, she went on passionately: "That's
why I went to sea, Frank. I was mad with jealousy. I couldn't give
you up to her. I couldn't let her have you!"
She pressed closer against him, and tiptoeing so as to raise her
mouth to his ear, she whispered: "I always liked you better than
anybody else in the world, Frank.
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