“I don’t know; truly, Julian, I don’t know, and I don’t care what he is doing to himself and all the others but us. But I do care dreadfully what he does to you and me, and I have come to see whether we can’t, you and I, pass a magic wand over ourselves to keep out his evil genius and whatever it’s leading to. That we may even begin to do it, I realize I must be very brave and tell you about myself. We can’t in the face of things leave any stone unturned between us.”
Julian looked up at her with a swift, tender smile.
“Now you are going to tell me you have committed murder, too,” he said.
“Julian, be still; don’t be amused. Yes, I am going to tell you that I have committed murder. I have. But listen, please; don’t laugh that way. I can’t bear it.”
“Darling, I can’t help it. Oh my God, I was just coming to tell you about my murder before you should hear about it from another, or read of it in a tabloid, or have it sprung upon you when I am cross-examined. Joel, we are in for a very great deal of horridness—worse than we realize.”
“Not worse than I realize,” she said, with inexpressible weariness. “Julian dearest, you must listen to me; and then,” she smiled faintly, “I will hear about your murder.”
He put her hands to his lips.
“Don’t,” she said, drawing back. “Perhaps you won’t feel that way when I’ve told you. After all if you have killed one—husband—.” She found it almost beyond her to say the word.
“Joel, you didn’t kill Jerry. You didn’t, you didn’t. Say it, I tell you. Say you didn’t.”
“I did. But it wasn’t quite a murder, really it wasn’t. Listen, Julian, stop crying. I swear to you it wasn’t altogether a murder.”