For I still feel his and I still feel him alive. You can love
people, and then forget them, and love somebody else; or love
somebody else without forgetting. Love is simple and gentle and, I
suppose, gives way. Alexander doesn't give way. I shall hurt you
now, I'm afraid, but I must say it. After him there can be no other
man for me. I think I'm sorry I ever married him, for I could have
loved somebody else and yet looked on at him. Or couldn't I? You'll
say I couldn't. Anyhow, as it is, I've come too near to him, seen
too much of him, become too much a part of him. You might think me
mad if I told you he often seemed to be with me and that I'm not
frightened, but admire and laugh as I used; I needn't fear any more.
So it is; and since it is so, how can I come to you? What is it they
call widows on tombstones and in the _Times_? Relicts, isn't it? I'm
literally his relict, something he's left behind. As I say, the only
thing. He can't come back for me, I suppose. But I feel as if he'd
pick me up somewhere some time, and we should begin over again, and
go on together.
Pages:
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478