It had been so unusual in him, but to Nan so natural. It seemed as
though of a sudden some great barrier between them had been thrust
aside by emotions beyond the man's control. He had flung out his hands
toward her, and, before she knew what was happening, she felt their
passionate pressure under the buckskin gauntlets she was wearing. Then
had come words, rapid, even disjointed; again to her so natural, yet
strange, awkward on the lips of this man.
"Say, little Nan," he cried, "we've won out. Look at 'em. The
pastures. They're full. Fuller than we ever guessed they'd be after
last year. Things are running same as we've dreamed. The Obar's going
up--up. And--it's all too late."
On the warm impulse of the moment she had answered him without a second
thought.
"Why--why is it too late?"
Her hands were still held in his passionate grasp. He laughed a
bitter, mirthless laugh.
"Why, because--because I've wakened out of a passionate nightmare to
realize all I've--lost."
She had abruptly withdrawn her hands.
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