"He betrayed me?"
"He betrayed you. Is there any vile thing he didn't do?"
And it was as it had been before. The nuns came out again, bringing the great cups of hot black coffee, coming and going gently. Only this time she couldn't drink.
"It's awful of us," she said, "to talk about him this way when he's dead."
"He isn't dead as long as he makes you feel like that. As long as he keeps you from me."
A long pause. And then, "Billy—he wasn't my lover."
"I know that," he said fiercely. "He took good care to tell me."
"I brought it all on myself. I ought to have given him up instead of hanging on to him that way. Platonic love—It's all wrong. People aren't really made like that. It was every bit as bad as going to Gibson Herbert…. Worse. That was honest. This was all lying. Lying about myself. Lying about him. Lying about—love."
"Then," he said, "you don't really know what it is."
"I know John's sort. And I know Gibson's sort. And I know there's a heavenly sort, Billy, in between. But I'm spoiled for it. I think I could have cared for you if it hadn't been for John…. I shan't ever get away from him."