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So it went on till snow came and they were shut in, man and wife, with only each other to watch, a tremendous test of good-fellowship. This searching intimacy came at a bad time, just after Holliwell's third visit when he had brought a fresh supply of books. "There's poetry this time," he said. "Get Pierre to read it aloud to you." The suggestion was met by a rude laugh from Pierre.
They are not trained to face crises, to make prompt and just decisions. Joan had made but two such resolutions in her life; the first when she had followed Pierre, the second when she had kept Holliwell's books in defiance of her husband's jealousy. The leaving her father had been the result of long and painful thought.
The picture of her was so vivid. Not in months had the reality of his "gel" come so close to his imagination. He could feel her feel her! O God! That was the sort of night he had spent and the next day he passed in a lethargy. He had no heart to face the future now that the great purpose of his life had failed. Holliwell's God of comfort and forgiveness forsook him.
"It ain't anything like that. I must wish you good-by, an' thank you kindly." "But you'll let me see you again? Where are you stopping? Holliwell's friends are mine." Pierre gave him the address of a small, downtown hotel, thanked him again, and, standing in the hall, added, "If I'm wrong in the notion that brought me to New York, I'll be goin' back again to my ranch, Mr. Morena.
Or was the change in her so enormous that it had disassociated her completely from her old life, from him? He kept repeating to himself Holliwell's stern, admonishing speech: "However changed for the worse she may be when you do find her, Pierre, you must remember that it is your fault, your sin. You must not judge her, must not dare to judge her. Judge yourself. Condemn yourself.
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