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Walpole, Hugh, Sir, 1884-1941

"The Captives"


"Oh, Paul," she wept. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm wicked. I
can't--"
He got up and stood with his back to her, looking towards the night
sky that flashed now with stars.
She controlled herself, feeling desperately that their whole future
together hung on the approaching minutes. She went up to him.
standing at first timidly behind him, then putting her hand through
his arm.
"Paul. It isn't so hopeless. If I can't give you that I can give you
everything else. I told you from the first that I couldn't help
loving Martin. All that kind of love I gave to him, but we can be
friends. I want a friend so badly. If we're both lonely we can come
together closer and closer, and perhaps, later on--"
But she could not go on. She knew that she would never forget
Martin, that she would never love Paul. These two things were so
clear to her that she could not pretend. As the darkness gathered
the wood into its arms and the last twitter of the birds sank into
silence, she felt that she too was being caught into some silent
blackness. The sky was pale green, the stars so bright that the rest
of the world seemed to lie in dim shadow.


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