And no wonder.

Shall I go back?
I hate to show a white feather.
"Do you know, Sally, I was--a little taken with this Texas Ranger.
Miserably, I confess.

He seemed so like in spirit to the grand stature of him.

How can so splendid a man be so bloody, base at heart?
It's hideous.

How little we know of men! I had my dream about Vaughn Steele.
I confess because it shames me--because I hate myself!" Next morning I awakened with a feeling that I was more like my old self.
In the experience of activity of body and mind, with a prospect that this was merely the forerunner of great events, I came round to my own again.
Sally was not forgotten; she had just become a sorrow.