“He went, knowing—“
“That I loved him? Yes; I told him.”
“And he told you that he didn’t love you?”
“No, there you were wrong. He told me that he did. But he saw what you saw. So what would you have asked of him?”
“Saw what I saw? What do you mean?”
“That he would suffocate me. That he was the negation of everything I believed in.”
“You mean to tell me,” said Grainger, his fingers still pressing down upon her shoulder, “that it all came out,—that you had it there between you,—and then that he ran away?”
“From the fear of hurting my life. Yes.”
“From the fear of life itself, you mean.”
“If that was it, wasn’t it enough?”