He puckered his brow: he suffered, looking at her beauty he would ... now he had confessed his sins ... have preferred to kiss.—All of you, hidden under your white prim dress! “It is so long since I have kissed you.”
“Harry, your word sin, does it cover up from your eyes what you and I have done? Am I right, dearest, to fear your word sin?”
—I want to kiss you. You are my wife and have forgiven me. I’m done with vices. I have the right, by God! to kiss your mouth and....
“Your going away killed me, Harry. I was near dead before you went. Your going away killed me.”
“Forgive me, I say.”
“Never! if you use that word. Forgiveness, sin ... they are words, Harry, that cover up. You killed me; you did not sin. You struggled for life and killed me. That is all. I struggled for life, after your struggle had killed me. Can you imagine how I needed, alone here in the house with Edith whom you have never seen, to struggle against the death in which your going buried me?”
“Edith——!”
“She is asleep. Have you thought, Harry?”
He stood up. “What can I do or say? Yes I have thought. It is that agony I brought to you which I call my sin: it is my heartache for it, my rushing back to you with hands imploring, that cries ‘Forgiveness.’ You stop me.”
“Harry you did not sin, because you needed life. Always that comes first; our need of life. I did not give you life. I don’t know why, but I did not give you life. You went elsewhere, fumbled. Now I feel strong. I feel now, Love, that I can give you life. We can now, from our new strength, at last give life to each other. If I did not know this, I would never have seen you again.