"I am not free. I may feel free later ... or perhaps not, perhaps never.... My dearest Duco, it is impossible. I wrote to you, you know: that first meeting at the ball; it was so strange; I felt that...."
"That what?"
She took his hand and stroked it; her eyes were vague, her words were vague:
"You see ... he has been my husband."
"But you're divorced from him: not merely separated, but divorced—"
"Yes, I'm divorced; but it's not that."
"What then, dearest?"
She shook her head and hid her face against him:
"I can't tell you, Duco."
"Why not?"