"Do you wish me to get over it?" he asked.
This confused me terribly, for in spite of all I was saying I knew at the bottom of my heart that in the sense he intended I did not and could not wish it.
"We have known and cared for each other all our lives, Mary—isn't that so? It seems as if there never was a time when we didn't know and care for each other. Are we to pray to God, as you say, that a time may come when we shall feel as if we had never known and cared for each other at all?"
My throat was fluttering—I could not answer him.
"I can't," he said. "I never shall—never as long as I live. No prayers will ever help me to forget you."
I could not speak. I dared not look at him. After a moment he said in a thicker voice:
"And you . . . will you be able to forget me? By praying to God will you be able to wipe me out of your mind?"
I felt as if something were strangling me.
"A woman lives in her heart, doesn't she?" he said. "Love is everything to her . . . everything except her religion. Will it be possible—this renunciation . . . will it be possible for you either?"
I felt as if all the blood in my body were running away from me.