“Ah. Then it is a knowledge gained through falsity and witchcraft, not through the God of love, and so will lead to no good end.”
“I am unhappy,” was all Lalette could whisper, (not understanding what the woman was trying to say).
“It is because you look on this man as personal to you. Love must share with all.”
(There was something passionately wrong with this, Lalette felt, but rue and the after-lash of last night’s wine and this morning’s experience had left her too low to seek out the flaws.) She began to weep softly.
After a few minutes, the widow said: “Let us reason. If you owe him not less than all love, so he owes as much to you; and by destroying your joy, he has failed his obligation. Do you still love him, not as we must love all, but to yourself, as of the material world?”
(It seemed to Lalette as though there were something big and dark and heavy in her breast where her heart ought to be, and she had no clear thoughts at all any more.) “I did not—ah, I do not know, he is all I have.”
“You have a mother, child.”
“A mother who tried to sell me! And still would, if she could find me.”
“Because she wishes to save you from distresses she herself has felt. That also is done in love, I think.”
“Then I’ll have no love!” cried Lalette, looking up furiously, tear-drops sparkling on her lashes. “I’ll hate and hate and hate.”