handsomest man in the world. Oh, didn't she know! And Cowperwood,
looking in her eyes and realizing this reasonless, if so comforting fever for
him, smiled and was touched. Such love! That of a dog for a master; that of
a mother for a child. And how had he come to evoke it? He could not say,
but it was beautiful.
And so, now, in these last trying hours, he wished to see her much—and
did—meeting her at least four times in the month in which he had been free,
between his conviction and the final dismissal of his appeal. He had one last
opportunity of seeing her—and she him—just before his entrance into prison
this last time—on the Saturday before the Monday of his sentence. He had
not come in contact with her since the decision of the Supreme Court had
been rendered, but he had had a letter from her sent to a private mail-box,
and had made an appointment for Saturday at a small hotel in Camden,
which, being across the river, was safer, in his judgment, than anything in
Philadelphia. He was a little uncertain as to how she would take the
possibility of not seeing him soon again after Monday, and how she would
act generally once he was where she could not confer with him as often as
she chose. And in consequence, he was anxious to talk to her. But on this
occasion, as he anticipated, and even feared, so sorry for her was he, she
was not less emphatic in her protestations than she had ever been; in fact,
much more so. When she saw him approaching in the distance, she went
forward to meet him in that direct, forceful way which only she could
attempt with him, a sort of mannish impetuosity which he both enjoyed and
admired, and slipping her arms around his neck, said: "Honey, you needn't
tell me. I saw it in the papers the other morning. Don't you mind, honey. I
love you. I'll wait for you. I'll be with you yet, if it takes a dozen years of
waiting. It doesn't make any difference to me if it takes a hundred, only I'm
so sorry for you, sweetheart. I'll be with you every day through this, darling,
loving you with all my might."
She caressed him while he looked at her in that quiet way which betokened
at once his self-poise and yet his interest and satisfaction in her. He couldn't
help loving Aileen, he thought who could? She was so passionate, vibrant,
desireful. He couldn't help admiring her tremendously, now more than ever,
because literally, in spite of all his intellectual strength, he really could not
rule her. She went at him, even when he stood off in a calm, critical way, as
if he were her special property, her toy. She would talk to him always, and
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