"... that you would marry me if I asked you. But I didn't, because I couldn't. Do you understand that? Do you still look at things in the way you did?"
The soul of a poor mariner might be tempest tossed on all the oceans of the world, but the soul of Mary Pridmore was the fixed star of his faith. The mere thought seemed to brace his courage for the task that honor laid upon him.
He took her hand. It was the only manifestation he would allow himself until he had told her.
"I could not ask you to marry me then," he said, "because I had a wife."
"You had a wife." She repeated the words numbly, incredulously.
"I had a wife," he said, doggedly. "She died two months ago."
"And ... and you never told me!"
"No."
There was an edge to her tone that had struck like a knife.
"Henry!"