'
'The evidence proves that I did.'
'I don't care.'
'Not now.'
'Never.'
She shook her head.
'It's dear of you, Bill, but you're promising an impossibility.
And just because it's impossible, and because I love you too much
to face what would be bound to happen, I'm going to send you
away.'
'Send me away!'
'Yes. It's going to hurt. You don't know how it's going to hurt,
Bill; but it's the only thing to do. I love you too much to live
with you for the rest of my life wondering all the time whether
you still believed or whether the weight of the evidence had
crushed out that tiny little spark of intuition which is all that
makes you believe me now. You could never know the truth for
certain, you see--that's the horror of it; and sometimes you would
be able to make yourself believe, but more often, in spite of all
you could do, you would doubt. It would poison both our lives.
Little things would happen, insignificant in themselves, which
would become tremendously important just because they added a
little bit more to the doubt which you would never be able to get
rid of.
'When we had quarrels--which we should, as we are both human--they
wouldn't be over and done with in an hour. They would stick in
your mind and rankle, because, you see, they might be proofs that
I didn't really love you.
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