“But I must!” she insisted. “Oh, Michael, I’m not going to pretend that Magda hasn’t been to blame—that it isn’t all terrible! But if you saw her—now—you’d have to forgive her and love her again.” She spoke with a simple sincerity that was infinitely appealing.
“I’ve never ceased to love her,” he replied, still in that quiet voice of repressed determination.
“Then if you love, her, can’t you forgive her? She’s had everything against her from the beginning, both temperament and upbringing, and on top of that there’s been the wild success she’s had as a dancer. You can’t judge her by ordinary standards of conduct. You can’t! It isn’t fair.”
“I don’t presume to judge her”—icily. “I simply say I can’t marry her.”
“If you could see her now, Michael——” Her voice shook a little. “It hurts me to see Magda—like that. She’s broken——”
“And my sister, June, is dead,” he said in level, unemotional tones.
Gillian wrung her hands.
“But even so——! Magda didn’t kill her, Michael. She couldn’t tell—she didn’t know that June——” She halted, faltering into silence.
“That June was soon to have a child?” Michael finished her sentence for her. “No. But she knew she loved her husband. And she stole him from her. When I think of it all, of June . . . little June! . . . And Storran—gone under! Oh, what’s the use of talking?”—savagely. “You know—and I know—that there’s nothing left. Nothing!”
“If you loved her, Michael—”