She recoiled
as though in the presence of defilement. If she married Randall,
his lips would be closed against her father. That is what her
father had meant. The vague, disquieting suspicions of years that
he might not have the same standards of uprightness as other men,
attained an awful certainty. She remembered the incident of the
private letter and the look in her father's eyes. ... Finally she
revolted. Her soul grew sick. She took no heed of Randall's
protest. She only saw that she was to be the cloak to cover up
something unclean between them. At a moment like this no woman
pretends to have a sense of justice. Randall had equal share with
her father in an unknown baseness. She hated him as he stood there
so strong and handsome. And she hated herself for having loved
him.
At last he said with a smile:
"Yes, That's just it."
"What?"
She had forgotten the purport of her last remark.
"He was a bit too--well, not too pro-German--but too anti-English
for me. You have got hold of the wrong end of the stick all the
time, Phyllis dear. I'm no more pro-German than you are. Perhaps I
see things more clearly than you do. I've been trained to an
intellectual view of human phenomena.
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