“Something has died in me. I don't believe I can ever love a man again.”
I lowered her head against the pile of pillows. I held the thick braid of her hair for a moment, then let it fall over her shoulder. I looked into her eyes, hoping against hope that I might find a responsive light there.
Then I sank back on my chair, and covered my face with my hands.
She reached out and laid her hand on my arm.
For a little time we sat that way. I could not look at her. I could not say anything. I was glad of the gentle touch of her hand.
It was she who broke the silence.
“Oh, Anthony,” she breathed. “If I only could!”
Then we were still again.
But this would not do. I was all egotism—I, who had so wished to help her.
Finally I looked up, and took her hand in mine and stroked it. I even smiled at her. At least, it seemed to me that I smiled.