XI.
I used to think there was nothing I couldn't give up for Richard.
Could I give up this? If I had to choose between losing Richard and losing this? (I suppose it would be generally considered that I had lost Richard.) If I had had to choose seven years ago, before I knew, I'd have chosen Richard; I couldn't have helped myself. But if I had to choose now—knowing what reality is—between losing Richard in the way I have lost him and losing reality, absolutely and for ever, losing, absolutely and for ever, my real self, knowing that I'd lost it?…
If there's anything in it at all, losing my real self would be losing Richard, losing Richard's real self absolutely and for ever. Knowing reality is knowing that you can't lose it. That or nothing.
XII.
Supposing there isn't anything in it? Supposing—Supposing—
Last night I began thinking about it again. I stripped my soul; I opened all the windows and let my ice-cold thoughts in on the poor thing; it stood shivering between certainty and uncertainty.
I tried to doubt away this ultimate passion, and it turned my doubt into its own exquisite sting, the very thrill of the adventure.
Supposing there's nothing in it, nothing at all?
That's the risk you take.
XIII.
There isn't any risk. This time it was clear, clear as the black pattern the sycamore makes on the sky. If it never came again I should remember.