The remark startled him. He had used it occasionally to rationalize his
position, had been convinced of its undeniable truth--yet suddenly he
realized that he himself was its living denial. People _could_ change,
just as he had changed, just as Dorothy could change. It had been partly
his fault when he first gave in to something he didn't want to do, and
then to something else, and something else after that. He had helped dig
the rut in which he had found himself, taking it for granted just as
Dorothy had taken it for granted.
Her hair was soft in the same moonlight that had shone eight years
before, and Sam Meecham felt a desire that had been too long
unfulfilled.
"Dorothy, I--"
He hesitated. The decision came hard to him, for much of his life had
been devoted to giving in to the decisions of others. This was the
moment he had been waiting for, and now at the last moment he was
uncertain.