I expect
you will be, now. But I've got to tell you just the same.
"Roddy, when you were talking to me, there in the hotel at Dubuque,
telling me how horrified you were over that, it came over me all at once
that I had nothing to forgive; that if the thing was a fault at all, it
was mine as much as yours, and that it wasn't so much of a fault as
an--accident. You couldn't help hating me, and you couldn't help loving
me. And you did both at once. And I, when I could have told you
something that would have made you--well, hate me less, anyhow--didn't
take the trouble. I said to myself then that it was too bad it happened,
but that it wasn't, at least, your fault. And I was afraid to tell you
so.
"But, Roddy, during these last months, down here in New York, I've
been--glad it happened. It's been something to hold on to, that your
love of me was strong enough, so that the hate couldn't kill it. It
helped me to hope that it would be strong enough, some day or other, to
bring you back to me.
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