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“I wish you had told me before,” said Gram, and his voice,
low and calm as it was, cut her to the heart.
She was silent for a moment.
“I did not want to write it, Gert. I would rather tell you.
When I wrote you yesterday to come and see me I meant to tell
you, but I could not.”
His face turned livid.
“I see. My God, how you must have suffered, child!” he
exclaimed.
“Yes, mostly for your sake, Gert. I will not ask you to
forgive me.”
“I forgive you? Great heavens! Can you forgive me? I
knew this day would come.”
“I suppose we both did.”
He threw himself suddenly face downwards on the ground.
She bent and laid her hand on his neck.
“Oh, my dear Jenny—my little one—what have I done to
you?”
”Dearest....”
“Little white bird, have I touched you with my ugly unclean
hands—spotted your white wings?”
“Gert”—she took both his hands, speaking impetuously—“listen
to me. You have done nothing but what was good and
kind; it is I who have done wrong. I was tired and you gave
me rest; I was cold and you warmed me. I needed rest and I
needed warmth; I needed to feel that somebody loved me. I
did not wish to deceive you, Gert, but you did not understand—I
could not make you see that I loved you in a different way—with
a very poor love. Can you not understand?”
“No, Jenny, I don’t believe that a young innocent girl gives
herself to a man if she does not believe her love will last.”
“That is just what I ask you to forgive—I knew you did
not understand, and yet I accepted all you gave me. It became
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