And
in his wonder he knew that the real dominance strikes its roots in the
heart, not in the head.
"You were strong, then, and you were strong, you were wonderfully
strong, when--afterwards. On Monte Amato--that evening--you were
strong."
His mind went to that mountain summit. The eyes of his mind saw the
evening calm on Etna, and then--something else, a small, fluttering
fragment of white paper at his feet among the stones. And, as if her
mind read his, she spoke again, still in that low, cold, and
inexorable voice.
"That piece of paper you found--what was it?"
"Hermione--Hermione--it was part of a letter of yours written in
Africa, telling him that we were coming to Sicily, the day we were
coming."
"It was that!"
The voice had suddenly changed. It struggled with a sob. It sank away
in a sob. The sin--that she could speak of with a sound of calm. But
all the woman in her was stricken by the thought of her happy letter
treated like that, hated, denied, destroyed, and thrown to the winds.
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