"Dear Alan," she said at
last, soothing his hand with her own, as a sister might have
soothed it, "you talk about all this as though it were to me some
new resolve, some new idea of my making. You forget it is the
outcome of my life's philosophy. I have grown up to it slowly.
I have thought of all this, and of hardly anything else, ever since
I was old enough to think for myself about anything. Root and
branch, it is to me a foregone conclusion. I love you. You love
me. So far as I am concerned, there ends the question. One way
there is, and one way alone, in which I can give myself up to you.
Make me yours if you will; but if not, then leave me. Only,
remember, by leaving me, you won't any the more turn me aside from
my purpose. You won't save me from myself, as you call it; you
will only hand me over to some one less fit for me by far than you
are." A quiet moisture glistened in her eyes, and she gazed at him
pensively. "How wonderful it is," she went on, musing. "Three
weeks ago, I didn't know there was such a man in the world at all
as you; and now--why, Alan, I feel as if the world would be nothing
to me without you.
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