"Suppose," says she, "you and I felt about each other the way we do, but you were married to a rich widow in Lisbon and I was married to a wicked old Jew in Malta—would that make you Satan and me Jezebel?"
"No," says I; "only me. Nothing could change you." She thought a little.
"No," says she; "I don't think anything could. But there isn't any wicked old Jew. You know that."
"And you know about the rich widow?"
"What about her?" This said sharp, with a tug at my arm to unwrap it.
"She was born in Singapore," said I, "of a silly goose by an idle thought. And two minutes later she died."
"There's nothing that can ever hurt us—is there?—nothing that's happened and gone before?"
Man that is born of woman ought not to have that question put up to him; but she didn't let me answer.
"Because, if there is," she said, "it's lucky I'm here to look after us."