"
I thought she was going to speak. Instead she turned away, so that I could
no longer see her face.
"Our marriage was a miserable mistake," I went on, struggling to be just
and judicial, and to seem calm. "I admit it now. Fortunately, we are both
still young--you very young. Mistakes in youth are never fatal. But, Anita,
do not blunder out of one mistake into another. You are no longer a child,
as you were when I married you. You will be careful not to let judgments
formed of him long ago decide you for him as they decided you against me."
"I wish to be free," she said, each word coming with an effort, "as much
on your account as on my own." Then, and it seemed to me merely a truly
feminine attempt to shirk responsibility, she added, "I am glad my going
will be a relief to you."
"Yes, it will be a relief," I confessed. "Our situation has become
intolerable." I had reached my limit of self-control. I put out my hand.
"Good-by," I said.
If she had wept, it might have modified my conviction that everything was
at an end between us. But she did not weep. "Can you ever forgive me?" she
asked.
"Let's not talk of forgiveness," said I, and I fear my voice and manner
were gruff, as I strove not to break down.
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