She screamed involuntarily—she had never in her life screamed before—and then she began to wriggle and fight like a frightened animal against the men who were holding her. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. I can’t rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. Anna, why will you persist in this single-handed combat with life?” “Don’t!” she cried. Why should some things and not others open the deeps?” “Well, that might, after all, be an outcome of selection—like the preference for blue flowers, which are not nearly so bright as yellow, of some insects.
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