She spoke in a whisper.
"I'll find a way." He told her. "There must be a way."
"But how? How?"
"I don't know. I never thought about it before. I never knew you cared. I thought it was just the flowers. Nothing but the flowers. I hate the flowers. The feel of them—the sight of them—the smell of them. I couldn't ever come here without being suffocated. I was jealous of them; fearfully jealous."
"And—I—thought." Her voice was low. "I—thought—that—because—I—feel—they—love—me;—because—I love—them;—somehow—they—brought—you—here."
"And when I come—"
"When?"
Her voice itself trailed to a whisper.
"I will come to you! I—will!"
"How—can—you—find—me?"