Time, of course, will do it.
You will understand, of course, that it is better for her--and for all
of us--if she doesn't see you."
Mr. Bingle's face shone. "She--she still loves me, then?" he cried
softly.
Force compressed his lips, and then admitted: "Yes, Bingle, old
fellow, she DOES love you. And, hang it all, why shouldn't she? I--I
want her to love me and not you. I can't look at you without envy in
my soul--eating my soul, do you understand?--and I could almost hate
you for the start you got of me in those long years with her. Oh,
don't laugh at me, Bingle. Don't stand there grinning like a hyena. I
suppose it will please you to hear that the poor child cries nearly
every night of her life because she--she misses you. I--"
"You can bet it DOES please me," shouted Mr. Bingle.
"Wait, Bingle! Don't go. What am I to do? How am I going to put
sunshine back into that little girl's face? Lord, man, I--I can't
stand it much longer."
Mr. Bingle pondered. Then he laid his hat upon the table and took a
notebook and pencil from his pocket.
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