"
"Ah, how weak I have been," he said to himself, with a last bitter,
instinctive revolt. "How weak I am."
She saw and understood.
"We must be generous," she said, changing her voice quickly to
gentleness. "He has been pained enough already. He alone will suffer.
And if you knew his name it would only make you unhappy."
He still rebelled, but suddenly to him came a thought which at first he
was ashamed to express.
"He doesn't know?"
She lied.
"No."
"He's still waiting--there?"
"Yes."
"Ah, he's waiting," he said to himself.
A gleam of vanity, of triumph over the discarded, humiliated one, leaped
up fiercely within him and ended all the lingering, bitter memories.
"Then you care?" she said, resting her head on his shoulder that he
might not see she had read such a thought.
"Care?" he cried. He had surrendered. Now it was necessary to be
convinced. "Why, when I received your letter I--I was wild. I wanted to
do murder."
"Jackie!"
"I was like a madman--everything was gone--nothing was left.
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