"You should not have come," she said.
"You told me to come."
"But not to me. I told you to come to Edith."
He sat down in a chair near her.
"You have got to hear what I have to say," he said. "You have not heard it yet."
"Yes; you have written to me. I have answered you."
"I can't express myself in writing. I can only write symbols of what I mean."
"I understood your symbols very well. I am sure you understood mine."
It seemed to her that the real struggle had only just begun. Even as he had said, what he wrote had only been symbols compared to the awful reality of his presence. The short, sharp sentence that each had spoken rang with keen hostility; in each love was up in arms, battling, as with an enemy, for a victory that must be hard won.
"You speak as if you hated me for coming," he said. "If you do, I can't help it."