"If he continued in his former evil ways," and there was an unusual tone of pleading rather than command in Father Hervey's voice, "I would not urge you to return to him. It is recognized that there are cases where living apart is advisable. But here is poor Jim, doing his best and needing every helping hand, and you won't extend yours. It is not fair, Georgia, and it is not kind—to him or to yourself."
"I can't go back to him, Father. It is impossible. I hate him when I think of it. I can't live with him again. It is inconceivable. It is a horror to imagine." She averted her head and put her hands before her as if pushing away the image of her husband.
"In the top drawer of the bureau," she said, "you will find some letters—one for every day I have been here. They are from the other man. You may take them if you wish—and I will give you my promise to receive no more from him."
The priest felt as if he were touching unclean things when he took up Stevens' letters. There were more than twenty of them, and most of them were very thick.
"You have read them all?" he asked.
"Yes."
Father Hervey wrapped and tied the letters in a newspaper and rang for an attendant.
"Kindly put this package in the furnace," he directed, "just as it is, without undoing it."
"You have wandered far," he said quietly, then took up his soft black hat and departed without prayer or blessing.
She sank back among her pillows, exhausted from the conflict. She had won, she told herself, she had won, but it was without joy.