Who?"
"Wait, now. Go slow, because I'm suffering. Listen. I'll not
hear a word about your own life--I want no secret of you. I'm
content. But I'm willing now, I say, to tell you all about
that--about those things.
"I didn't do that at first, but how could I? There wasn't any
chance. Besides, when I saw you, the rest of the world, the rest
of my life, it was all, all wiped out of my mind, as though some
drug had done it. You came, you were so sweet, my lack was so
horrible, that I took you into my soul, a drug, a balm, an
influence, a wonderful thing.
"Oh, I'm awake now! But I reckon maybe that doesn't mean that I'm
getting out of my dream, but only into it, deeper yet. I was mad
for you then. I could feel the blood sting in my veins, for you.
Life is life after all, and we're made as we are. But later, now,
beside that, on top of that, something else--do you think it's--do
you suppose I'm capable of it, selfish as I am? Do you reckon it's
love, just big, worthy, _decent_ love, better than anything in the
world? Is that--do you reckon, dear girl, that that's why I'm able
now to say good-by? I loved you once so much I could not let you
go.
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