She still sat there, her hands limp in her lap.
Finally she said, in a low voice that was y et steady—“I wish I could love you.”
“You can,” I muttered. “You shall!”
She slowly shook her head. “No,” she breathed.
“But you must,” I went on. “It is the only thing now. It is the one way out for you and me.”
This had some effect on her. She pursed her lips, and thought.
But after a little she shook her head again, and made that listless gesture of her left hand that she had made that first day, when I broke into her room.
“Something has died in me,” she said. “I don't believe I can ever love a man again.”
She rose, and moved toward her own room. On the sill she paused, and picked at the flaking paint of the door frame.
“I do not believe it is the only way out,” she said. “You will get over it, of course.” Then, at the shake of my head, she corrected—“At least, you will have your work, and the feeling that you are getting somewhere with your life. I should think that would be the one great thing, after all. And I shall at least know that I am not hurting another life. I hurt everybody, that cares for me. If I could—love you, I should undoubtedly hurt you.”