It is obvious, of course (even in this tense moment the fact became reasonably clear to me) that where personal desire is the major premise, logic is impossible.
It was time I came; in some degree to my senses.
She must have seen something of all this in my face, when I bent forward and took her two hands so firmly and looked into her eyes.
“Heloise dear,” I said, “you are not going to die. You are going to live. For the present you are going to let me help you start at rebuilding your life. You will do this because I love you, and because it is unthinkable that I should not help you. One way or the other”—I repeated this phrase with a peculiar emphasis that, I could see, puzzled her—“one way or the other I am going to help you. It may be that I can never stir you to love me. I shall do this if I can, Heloise; but it may be that I shall not succeed. I am glad that I have”—my voice broke here, so confusing is love—“have kissed you, but I shall not kiss you again. Not again, dear. We shall work this out, however. You and I, one way or the other, we shall work it out.”
“But Anthony,” said she. “You must let me tell you! It is—I am not free—there is—”
“You shall not tell me to-night,” I said to her. “You shall tell me nothing. I will not permit it. I will not listen. Free or bound, however dreadful the facts may seem—these things are nothing. Nothing!” My voice rose a little, I fear, at this point. “They can not possibly concern us now, you and me. For one way or the other—”
“But, dear, you don't understand—you don't know!”
“I know enough,” said I. “I know all that need concern me and the woman I love more than my life, more than my work, more than everything else in the world and the sky.”
She seemed almost to shudder at this.
“Anthony! Please, dear!” She was whispering these broken sentences. “This is all wrong! Please!”