Then he shook his head.
"You are wrong, Virginia, dead wrong," he told her with quiet emphasis.
"You have called me a thief? Well, perhaps I am. You have given your
explanation; let me give mine."
He paused, shaping the matter in mind. His face was stern and very,
very grave. Presently, his lowered voice guarded against any chance
ears, he continued.
"I lay on my bed a week, a long, utterly damnable week. I could do
nothing but think. So I thought, as I told you, of everything. Most
of all I thought of you, Virginia Page. Shall I tell you why? No;
we'll let that go until we understand each other. I thought of myself,
of my life, of my eternal striving with Jim Galloway. Some day I
should get Galloway or he would get me. In either case, what good?
Was not Galloway a wiser man than I? He took what he wanted; I merely
wasted my time chasing after such bigger men as he. If he desired a
thousand dollars or five, ten thousand, he went out for it like a man
and took it. Why shouldn't he? Oh, I tell you I had the time to dwell
upon the little meaningless words of honesty and dishonesty, honor and
dishonor, and all of their progeny and forebears! They are empty;
empty, I tell you, Virginia! When I stood on my feet again I was a
free man. I knew it then, I know it now.
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