Her pity and affection tore at her. She wanted to cry to him that she would never fail him, that no forgiveness was needed between them, that they would begin life together again. The impulse of reckless generosity rose to blot out the relentless unalterability of truth.
Every carefully inculcated falsity of upbringing strove against her, every easy sentimentality sought to stifle sincerity of thought.
"Let me wait—don't make me say anything now," she besought him. "I ought to think—I want to think, before we settle anything. Give me time, Nicholas."
He was obviously puzzled and she knew that he thought her forgiveness of him to be still in the balance.
"But you'll tell me soon, Lily?" he said wistfully. "Of course you have a right morally to claim this—this terrible penalty, and I would make it as easy as I could for you, dear—you know I'd do that. But you won't—you couldn't. Talk to your father, darling. He'll help you."
But Lily talked to no one.
She had taken advice once before. This time, she sought to confront her own issues alone.
Freedom. This might mean freedom.
She had longed, with the frantic desire of hopelessness, to begin again. And Nicholas himself had provided her with a door of escape. A legitimate exit.
Her thoughts roamed free and disconnected.