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She
dropped
to
her
knees
and
clasped
him
about
the
waist
.
"
Oh
,
Frank
!
Oh
,
Frank
!
Oh
,
Frank
!
"
she
began
to
call
,
crying
.
"
I
ca
n't
stand
it
!
I
ca
n't
!
I
ca
n't
!
I
ca
n't
!
I
shall
die
.
"
"
Do
n't
give
way
like
that
,
Aileen
,
"
he
pleaded
.
"
It
does
n't
do
any
good
.
I
ca
n't
lie
to
myself
.
I
do
n't
want
to
lie
to
you
.
Life
is
too
short
.
Facts
are
facts
.
If
I
could
say
and
believe
that
I
loved
you
I
would
say
so
now
,
but
I
ca
n't
.
I
do
n't
love
you
.
Why
should
I
say
that
I
do
?
"
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In
the
content
of
Aileen
's
nature
was
a
portion
that
was
purely
histrionic
,
a
portion
that
was
childish
--
petted
and
spoiled
--
a
portion
that
was
sheer
unreason
,
and
a
portion
that
was
splendid
emotion
--
deep
,
dark
,
involved
.
At
this
statement
of
Cowperwood
's
which
seemed
to
throw
her
back
on
herself
for
ever
and
ever
to
be
alone
,
she
first
pleaded
willingness
to
compromise
--
to
share
.
She
had
not
fought
Stephanie
Platow
,
she
had
not
fought
Florence
Cochrane
,
nor
Cecily
Haguenin
,
nor
Mrs.
Hand
,
nor
,
indeed
,
anybody
after
Rita
,
and
she
would
fight
no
more
.
She
had
not
spied
on
him
in
connection
with
Berenice
--
she
had
accidentally
met
them
.
True
,
she
had
gone
with
other
men
,
but
?
Berenice
was
beautiful
,
she
admitted
it
,
but
so
was
she
in
her
way
still
--
a
little
,
still
.
Could
n't
he
find
a
place
for
her
yet
in
his
life
?
Was
n't
there
room
for
both
?
At
this
expression
of
humiliation
and
defeat
Cowperwood
was
sad
,
sick
,
almost
nauseated
.
How
could
one
argue
?
How
make
her
understand
?
"
I
wish
it
were
possible
,
Aileen
,
"
he
concluded
,
finally
and
heavily
,
"
but
it
is
n't
.
"
All
at
once
she
arose
,
her
eyes
red
but
dry
.
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"
You
do
n't
love
me
,
then
,
at
all
,
do
you
?
Not
a
bit
?
"
"
No
,
Aileen
,
I
do
n't
.
I
do
n't
mean
by
that
that
I
dislike
you
.
I
do
n't
mean
to
say
that
you
are
n't
interesting
in
your
way
as
a
woman
and
that
I
do
n't
sympathize
with
you
.
I
do
.
But
I
do
n't
love
you
any
more
.
I
ca
n't
.
The
thing
I
used
to
feel
I
ca
n't
feel
any
more
.
"