They were Santa's and yet they were not Santa's. . . .
"'Ah,' said she, 'do not lie to me, now! It hurts so!'
"'Well, then,' I told her, 'your husband once, back in the past, did me
a very great wrong. It--well, it wrecked the work of my life, and I
have never forgiven it. Now let us talk no more about it.'
"A look of relief, almost a happy look, dawned on her face.
'I _knew_ it was not about me! For I saw your two faces when you met
on the hill, under my porchway. . . . Do you know that, at moments,
you are very much alike? . . . Oh, in general, of course, there is no
likeness at all. . . . But at certain moments. . . . And it was so
when you met, there on the hill: I had to look from one to the other.
It was plain in that instant that you hated one another--yes, and it
might have been for a long time . . . ages and ages. But it could
not have been about me, for you had not set eyes on me but within the
minute. . . . I am glad, anyway, that it is not for my sake that you
hate.'
"Her words came in faint, hurrying wafts, much as for days the wind
had been ruffling after us.
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