"Yes, but I want you to. I'd rather hear it from you. The doctors don't think I shall ever be fit for much again, do they?"
She spoke steadily, with a certain insistence. He looked up at her sharply, with something of a glare in his eyes.
"You're not going to die—whatever they say!" he declared in a fierce undertone.
"No—no, of course not!" She spoke soothingly, still smiling at him, for that barely checked ferocity of his sent rapture through her soul. "Do you suppose I'd be such an idiot as to go and die just when I'm beginning to enjoy life? I'm not the puny heroine of a lachrymose novel. I hope I've got more sense. No, dear, what I really meant was—was—am I ever going to be strong enough—woman enough—to give you—what you want so much?"
"Vera—my dear!" He leaned swiftly to her, his arm pillowed her head. "Do you suppose—do you really suppose—I'd let you jeopardize your sweet life—after this—after this?"
He was holding her closely to him, and though a little spasm of breathlessness went through her she gave herself to him with a pulsing gladness that thrilled her whole being. It was the happiest moment she had ever known.
"Oh, Edward," she said, "do you—do you really feel like that?"
His cheek was against her forehead. He did not speak for a few seconds.
Then, with something of an effort, "Yes," he said. "It's like that with
me now, my dear. I've been through—a good deal—these last days. Now
I've got you back—please God, I'll keep you!"
She pressed her face against him. "Ah, but Edward, you know you've always wanted—"
"Oh, damn my wants!" he broke in impatiently. "I don't want anything but you now."