"Forgive me—oh, forgive your Rosalie!" she pleaded. "I did not know what I was saying—I was mad."
"It was all so sane and true," he said, like one who, on the brink of death, finds a satisfaction in speaking the perfect truth. "I am glad to hear the truth—I have been such a liar."
She looked up startled, her tears blinding her. "You have not deceived me?" she asked bitterly. "Oh, you have not deceived me—you have loved me, have you not?" It was that which mattered, that only. Moveless and eager, she looked—looked at him, waiting, as it were, for sentence.
"I never lied to you, Rosalie—never!" he answered, and he touched her hand.
She gave a moan of relief at his words. "Oh, then, oh, then… " she said, in a low voice, and the tears in her eyes dried away.
"I meant that until I knew you, I kept deceiving myself and others all my life—"
"But without knowing it?" she said eagerly.
"Perhaps, without quite knowing it."
"Until you knew me?" she asked, in quick, quivering tones.
"Till I knew you," he answered.