Winapie,
alien to the scene, was lighting the slow wick of the slush lamp. She
appeared to start out against a background of utter black, and the flame,
flaring suddenly up, lighted her bronze beauty to royal gold.
"You see, it is impossible," he groaned, thrusting the fair-haired woman
gently from him. "It is impossible," he repeated. "It is impossible."
"I am not a girl, Dave, with a girl's illusions," she said softly, though
not daring to come back to him. "It is as a woman that I understand. Men
are men. A common custom of the country. I am not shocked. I divined
it from the first. But--ah!--it is only a marriage of the country--not a
real marriage?"
"We do not ask such questions in Alaska," he interposed feebly.
"I know, but--"
"Well, then, it is only a marriage of the country--nothing else."
"And there are no children?"
"No."
"Nor--"
"No, no; nothing--but it is impossible."
"But it is not." She was at his side again, her hand touching lightly,
caressingly, the sunburned back of his. "I know the custom of the land
too well. Men do it every day. They do not care to remain here, shut
out from the world, for all their days; so they give an order on the P.
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