I miss Desmond every hour, and some
great monstrous demon seems to be clutching at me--at you--at
England--everything one loves and would die for--all day long.
But don't imagine that I ever _doubt_ for one moment. Not
I--
For right is right, since God is God,
And right the day must win;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin.
I know that's not good poetry. But I just love it--because it's
plain and commonplace, and expresses just what ordinary people
feel and think.
'Oh, why was I such a fool about Elizabeth! Now that you are at
a safe distance--and of course on the understanding that you
never, never say a word to me about it--I positively will and
must confess that I was jealous of her about you--yes, about
you, Arthur--because you talked to her about Greek--and about
ash for aeroplanes--and I couldn't talk about them. There's a
nice nature for you! Hadn't you better get rid of me while you
can? But the thing that torments me is that I can never have it
quite out with Desmond.
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