I think I should be very happy, and as you know I have never yet
been very happy. I wasn't while my husband was alive. Imagine my
finding side by side in his desk the doctor's letter saying it was
certain death to go to Henstead and that report of Professor
Maturin's which he suppressed and told me had been destroyed. That
brought him back to me just as he was. With you I think I should be
happy. I should never be afraid, I should never be ashamed. What
fear and what shame I used to feel! I write very openly to you about
myself and about him; if I were answering as you wish, I would not
say a word against him. But I can't. That's just the feeling. You
tell me I am free, that two years have gone by, that I might find a
new life for myself, that you love me. I know it all, but except the
last none of it sounds true. You know that once I thought about
being free and that then you were in my thoughts. Who should be, if
you were not? Except him and you I have never thought of any man.
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