What sort of situation would they have found themselves in,
had she confessed her true new feelings about the love-storm that had
swept over them, that night of the February gale? What good would
protestations of love and sympathy for him do, if she had to go on
denying him the tangible evidence and guarantee of these feelings?
She must deny them. Could she go home to him now, a repentant prodigal?
Or even if, after hearing her story, he denied she was a prodigal;
professed to see in it a reason for taking her fully into his life as
his friend and partner? They might have a wonderful week together,
living up to their new standard, professing all sorts of new
understandings. But the thing wasn't to be for a week. It was for the
rest of their lives. She'd never be able to feel that, in the bottom of
his heart, he wasn't ashamed of her, as his world would say he ought to
be. What satisfying guarantee could he ever give her that he wasn't
ashamed? She couldn't think of any.
Oh, it was all hopeless! It didn't matter what you did.
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