How am I to
know that you really love me?'
He had moved a step towards her. He drew back, chilled.
'I can't do more than tell you,' he said.
'You can't. And there you have put in two words just what I've
been trying to make clear all the time. Don't you see that that's
the terrible thing about life, that nobody can do more than tell
anybody anything? Life's nothing but words, words, words; and how
are we to know when words are true? How am I to know that you
didn't ask me to marry you out of sheer pity and an exaggerated
sense of justice?'
He stared at her.
'That,' he said, 'is absolutely ridiculous!'
'Why? Look at it as I should look at it later on, when whatever it
is inside me that tell me it's ridiculous now had died. Just at
this moment, while we're talking here, there's something stronger
than reason which tells me you really do love me. But can't you
understand that that won't last? It's like a candle burning on a
rock with the tide coming up all round it. It's burning brightly
enough now, and we can see the truth by the light of it. But the
tide will put it out, and then we shall have nothing left to see
by. There's a great black sea of suspicion and doubt creeping up
to swamp the little spark of intuition inside us.
'I will tell you what would happen to me if I didn't send you
away.
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