"Oh, take some of the blame," said Ethel; "don't put it all on the
woman."
"You've never spoken to me like this before."
"I've often wanted to," replied Ethel. Then she asked him: "What do
you intend doing?"
"Separate," he answered, eagerly. "You don't doctor a poisoned limb
when your life depends on it; you cut it off. When two lives
generate a deadly poison, face the problem as a surgeon would.
Amputate."
"And after the operation? What then?" asked Ethel.
"That is why I am here facing you. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Oh, dear, yes. Perfectly. I have been waiting for you to get to the
point."
"Ethel!" and he impulsively stretched out his arms as though to
embrace her.
She drew back slightly, just out of his reach.
"Wait." She looked up at him, quizzically: "Suppose we generate
poison? What would you do? Amputate me?"
"You are different from all other women."
"Didn't you tell your wife that when you asked her to marry you?"
He turned away impatiently: "Don't say those things, Ethel, they
hurt."
"I'm afraid, Christian, I'm too frank, aren't I?"
"You stand alone, Ethel. You seem to look into the, hearts of people
and know why and how they beat."
"I do--sometimes. It's an awkward faculty.
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