We've got to end it this way."
"No. Not this way."
"Yes--yes. It's all right, darling. We've struggled till we can't
struggle any more. You must. Why not? When you love me."
He pressed her closer in his arms. She lay quiet there. When she was
quiet he let her speak.
"I can't," she said. "It's Molly. Poor little Molly."
"Don't talk to me of Molly. She lied about you."
"Whatever she did she couldn't help it."
"Whatever we do now we can't help it."
"We can. We're different. Oh--don't! Don't hold me like that. I can't
bear it."
His arms tightened. His mouth found hers again as if he had not heard
her.
She gave a faint cry that pierced him.
He looked at her. The lips he had kissed were a purplish white in her
thin bloodless face. "I say, are you ill?"
She saw her advantage and took it.
"No. But I can't stand things very well. They make me ill. That's what
I meant when I asked you to be careful."
Her helplessness stilled his passion as it had roused it. He released
her suddenly.
He took the thin arm surrendered to his gentleness, turned back her
sleeve and felt the tense jerking pulse.
He saw what she had meant.
* * * * *
"Do you mind my sitting beside you if I keep quiet?"
She shook her head.
"Can you stand my talking about it?"
"Yes. If you don't touch me."
"I won't touch you. We've got to face the thing. It's making you ill.
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