She had made a tremendous
effort, trying to fling it in his face, and it had fallen as mildly as
a snowflake. She began to sob. This was the climax of her suffering,
that it should fall like that.
He picked it up and read it. It was no good trying to explain, for one
explanation would only necessitate another. He was deeply in the mire,
they were both, they were all in it, and he did not know how to get
anybody out, but he had to stop that sobbing somehow. His pity for
Christabel swelled into his biggest feeling. He crumpled the letter
angrily and, at the sound, she held her breathing for a moment. Of
course, she should have crumpled the letter and then she might have
hit him with it.
'I wish to God I'd never seen her,' she heard him say with despairing
anger. And then, more gently, 'Don't cry, Christabel. I can't bear to
hear you. The letter's nothing. I shall never meet her again. I must
take more care of you.' He took her hand and stroked it. He would
never meet Rose again, but he had an appointment with Henrietta.
'You promise? But no, it doesn't matter if you love her.'
'I don't love her.'
'But you did.'
He passed his free hand across his forehead. No, he would not keep
that appointment with Henrietta, or he would only keep it to tell her
it was impossible. He could not go with this wailing in his ears and
he knew that piteous sound was his salvation. It gave him the strength
to appear weak.
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