If only one of them could have laughed! But the situation was much too
tragic for that.
"I want to tell you first," Rodney said, and his manner was that of a
schoolboy reciting to his teacher an apology that has been rehearsed at
home under the sanction of paternal authority, "I want to tell you how
deeply sorry I am for ... I want to say that you can't be any more
horrified over what I did--that night than I am."
He had his newspaper in his hands again and was twisting it up. His eyes
didn't once seek her face. But they might have done so in perfect
safety, because her own were fixed on his hands and the newspaper they
crumpled.
He didn't presume to ask her forgiveness, he told her. He couldn't
expect that; at least not at present. He went on lamely, in broken
sentences, repeating what he'd said, in still more inadequate words. He
was unable to stop talking until she should say something, it hardly
mattered what. And she was unable to say anything. There was a reason
for this:
The thing that had amazed her by crowding up into her mind, demanding to
be said, was that she forgave him utterly--if indeed she had anything
more to forgive than he.
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