And you will leave your work to be just a lover. And the work
that I might do because of my father's wealth; all that would vanish
too. We should leave all of that, all of our usefulness, all that
much of ourselves. But what has made me love you? Just your breadth of
vision, just the sense that you mattered. What has made you love me?
Just that I have understood the dream of your work. All that we should
have to leave behind. We should specialize, in our own scandal. We
should run away just for one thing. To think, by sharing the oldest,
simplest, dearest indulgences in the world, that we had got each other.
When really we had lost each other, lost all that mattered...."
Her face was flushed with the earnestness of her conviction. Her eyes
were bright with tears. "Don't think I don't love you. It's so hard to
say all this. Somehow it seems like going back on something--something
supreme. Our instincts have got us.... Don't think I'd hold myself from
you, dear. I'd give myself to you with both hands. I love you--When a
woman loves--I at any rate--she loves altogether. But this thing--I am
convinced--cannot be. I must go my own way, the way I have to go. My
father is the man, obstinate, more than half a savage. For me--I know
it--he has the jealousy of ten husbands.
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