He was silent. His hand lay in hers, but did not press it.
“Boris”—she spoke the cruel words very quietly,—“we are not truly one in soul. We have never been. I know that.”
He said nothing.
“Shall we ever be? Think—if one of us were to die, and the other—the one who was left—were left with the knowledge that in our love, even ours, there had always been separation—could you bear that? Could I bear it?”
“Domini—”
“Yes.”
“Why do you speak like this? We are one. You have all my love. You are everything to me.”
“And yet you are sad, and you try to hide your sadness, your misery, from me. Can you not give it me? I want it—more than I want anything on earth. I want it, I must have it, and I dare to ask for it because I know how deeply you love me and that you could never love another.”
“I never have loved another,” he said.
“I was the very first.”