Eva stood up, stretching out her arms with her impotent, childish gesture of despair. "I never thought—oh, God, why can't I die?"
"Why didn't you tell me the truth then, as you're telling me now? What if I killed him?"
"I was afraid; I'm a coward, I've told you so!" She stopped and stood looking at him, then suddenly her face quivered. "Can you forgive me? I've suffered, I'd like to feel that you'd forgiven me."
"Does it make any difference? Does it matter?"
"It matters to me."
He turned and met her eyes and his face paled. "Eva," he said gently, "did you ever even for one moment love me?"
She pressed her hands together tightly, looking at him strangely.
"Would—would it make it easier to forgive me?"
"Yes," he replied slowly, "I, too, have traveled a long way, Eva; I, too, came to find that there was no love for me; I, too, have suffered,—I'm really quite human. But I could forgive you, I would forgive you even this, if I felt that you'd ever been honest with me, ever loved your husband for a moment in your life."
She drew a step nearer, her eyes dilated. "Did—did you ever love me?"