"Dear God, I love you." And again he kissed her, long and full. But
then he drew back, and a dark shadow clouded his features, as if
recalling some barrier which stood between them still.
"What is it?" she asked, terrified.
"Forgive me," he said. "I know you're glad to see me. . .and I have no
right to ask." Their eyes met, and there was such astonished pain in
her gaze..... "Do you still love him?" he whispered.
"Do I still love who?"
"The Englishman."
"Michael! Whoever said that I did?"
".....but your letter, the day I left to join our troops. The one you
put in my pack, explaining---"
"Michael, look at me." He did, as bewildered as she. "I have never
loved anyone but you. I never could. And I wrote you no such letter,
then or otherwise. The only Englishman I know is my half-brother, and
if in the whole of my lifetime I can learn not to hate him, I will
deem it a blessing from Heaven."
He fell back further still, as if it was she who had returned from the
dead. The question of who, then, had written the letter, hardly
occurred to him.
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