Why am I 'cruel,' simply
asking if it's true that you've loved me? Of course, when Mother told
you of my fever, and what I'd said of this cathedral picture, she told
you that I was dead in love with 'the Girl,' as I called you, and just
about crazy because I'd lost her. Why shouldn't you have loved me a
little bit--say, the hundredth part as much as I loved you? I'm not a
monster, am I? And we both had exactly the same length of time to fall
in love--whole hours on end. Cruel or not cruel, I've got to know. Was
it the truth you told the O'Farrell man?"
I could not speak. I didn't try to speak. I looked up at him. It must
have been some such look as the Princess gave St. George when he
appeared at the last minute, to rescue her from the dragon. The tears
I'd been holding back splashed over my cheeks. Jim gave a low cry of
pity--or love (it sounded like love) as he saw them; and the next thing,
he was kissing them away. I was in his arms so closely held that my
breath was crushed out of my lungs. I wanted to sob. But how can you sob
without breath? I could only let him kiss me on cheeks, and eyes, and
mouth, and kiss him back again, with eager haste, lest I should wake up
to find he had loved me for a fleeting instant, in a divine dream.
When he let me breathe for a second, I gasped that, of course, it
_couldn't_ be true, this wonderful thing that was happening?
"I've dreamed of you--a hundred times," I stammered.
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