One of them is that I didn't know
you were here."
"Therese didn't tell you?"
"No."
"Never talked to you about me?"
I hesitated only for a moment. "Never," I said. Then I asked in
my turn, "Did she tell you I was here?"
"No," she said.
"It's very clear she did not mean us to come together again."
"Neither did I, my dear."
"What do you mean by speaking like this, in this tone, in these
words? You seem to use them as if they were a sort of formula. Am
I a dear to you? Or is anybody? . . . or everybody? . . ."
She had been for some time raised on her elbow, but then as if
something had happened to her vitality she sank down till her head
rested again on the sofa cushion.
"Why do you try to hurt my feelings?" she asked.
"For the same reason for which you call me dear at the end of a
sentence like that: for want of something more amusing to do. You
don't pretend to make me believe that you do it for any sort of
reason that a decent person would confess to."
The colour had gone from her face; but a fit of wickedness was on
me and I pursued, "What are the motives of your speeches? What
prompts your actions? On your own showing your life seems to be a
continuous running away.
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