“I do not know,” she whispered, “why it is. It must be, Dear. Let us not argue. Let us not rend the beauty of our parting with inquisitive words—words that can only claw a truth. Let us be peaceful here for the days that remain. Let us accept what neither of us knows ... like our births, Dear, like our deaths: just so deep. It must be.”
He took away his hands from his face.
“I shant argue, Fanny. When I first saw you and loved you, I said: ‘She may come: that is possible. She will go: that is sure.’ I knew. What right have I to argue? You have blessed me with life. If now I must pay, so be it. Which part is the blessing—I don’t know Fanny: my having you, or the long years I shall walk alone if you leave me, and fill with my word: ‘I have had her.’”
“You have given me Peace. You have given me what I must give up.”
“I will not argue. I cannot give up hope. Wont you speak to me, Fanny?”
“What can I say?”
“What are you?”
She was still.
... “Why did you come to me? Why did you let me love you? Why did you not resist? Where do you come from, Fanny? where are you going?”