The man made fast a shoe-lace before replying.
Then he looked up.
“Pat,” he said quietly, “I’m not going to tell you why.”
“You needn’t,” said Patricia. “I know.”
She took the letter from her dress and put it into his hand.
“Read that,” she said. “And see how minds think alike.”
July 27th.
My Darling,
I’m writing this letter because if I don’t, I shall go mad. My gorgeous engagement ring glares at me: the pearls George has given me sprawl, pale and indignant, by my side. I’ve taken them off. I don’t want his pearls about me; I want your arms.
Simon, that last night here we buried our love alive—our glorious, blessed passion, we buried alive. I must have been mad. I suppose I thought it’d die—if I thought at all. I was nearly out of my mind that awful night. I did faint once—in your arms, but you never knew it. . . . “Die?” It’ll never die. Think what that means. A living thing immured, that can never die. That can starve, but never to death. . . .