“Don’t you remember how it begins with the exhumation of the body of that poor woman six months after she was buried?”
I recalled the fact.
“So that all through the rest of the book, when Marguerite Gautier is at the height of her triumphs, if you call them triumphs, you see her as she was first shown to you. Well— Oh, don’t you understand? That’s the way I had to see—I had to see you!”
I hung my head. “I understand perfectly, Regina—now.”
“There’s so much we’re only beginning to understand now, both on your side and on mine.”
“When it’s almost too late—if it isn’t quite.”
Her manner, her voice, both of which had been a little piteous, took on a sudden energy.
“Oh, as to that, I’ve been thinking it over—I’ve had to think over so much—and I don’t believe the word applies.”
“Doesn’t apply?” I asked, in astonishment. “Why not—when it’s as late as it is? It’s just as if Fate had been making us a plaything.”
“I don’t believe that. Life can’t be the sport of disorganized chance. If Romeo takes poison ten minutes before Juliet wakes it’s because the years behind them led up to the mistake.”