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第8章 心如刀绞

　　"Yes, sir," said Carrie, who had long since learned this art.

　　"Who are they?" asked Hurstwood.

　　"I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing thathe looked as if he said "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, all right.I don't care."

　　Carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon herability.

　　The colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot theletter from McGregor, James and Hay. If he could only haveCarrie, perhaps he could get out of the whole entanglement--perhaps it would not matter. He wouldn't care what his wife didwith herself if only he might not lose Carrie. He stood up andwalked about, dreaming his delightful dream of a life continuedwith this lovely possessor of his heart.

　　"No."

　　Hurstwood was something of a romanticist after his kind. He wascapable of strong feelings--often poetic ones--and under a stressof desire, such as the present, he waxed eloquent. That is, hisfeelings and his voice were coloured with that seeming repressionand pathos which is the essence of eloquence.

　　Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. Thereit was, the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor.An elegant coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by,carrying in its upholstered depths a young lady.

　　She looked at his hand.