“You did not know it, Geoffrey.”
“I touched something in the dark.”
“I would not have told you if you had not wished to send me back to him.”
“Why not, Felicia?”
Her eyelids for a moment fell, almost as if she mused.
“It seemed to make things less simple—more difficult.”
“More difficult, perhaps,” said Geoffrey, “but more simple, too, I think. Have you known for long?”
“Only, clearly, yesterday; but it seems now as if it had been there—oh—for long, long—since the beginning perhaps. I can’t tell. I can’t see. But so strangely, Geoffrey, not touching or harming my love for him, giving it strength indeed, I believe, as you gave me strength.”
Still she seemed to muse, quietly; with down-cast eyes in speaking, but, in her pauses, raising that grave eternity of look to him.
“The threads go back and back—and they turn round one another. I can’t see them separately till now—when his is broken. You remember when you kissed me, Geoffrey, at the edge of the wood? It was then—it must have been then—that the threads ran together. And ever since you have been woven into my life—into my love for my husband—I don’t know what was you and what was I.”