I'm done."
Still she didn't move, reply. "I am going," he said more impatiently,
"tonight. I want you to understand that this is final. You were too
good a wife; I couldn't keep even with you; and I can't say, now, that
I want to. Everyone will tell you that I am no good--you see, I haven't
the shadow of a cause for leaving--and the best thing you can do is
believe them. If I had what was recognized as a reason for going, I'd
stay, if that has any sense; you may put your own interpretation on
it."
She turned and half rose, regarding him from the edge of the bed. Her
face, no longer brightly mottled, was sunken, and dull with despair. "I
can't talk," she said; "the words are all hard like stones down in my
heart. You'll have to go; I can't stop you; I knew you had gone
yesterday, or was it last week? I saw it was a hopeless fight but I
tried, I had to; I thought your memory would help."
"It wasn't Savina who did this," he informed her; "I want you to
realize that fully. Whatever happens, she is not to blame. All, all the
fault is mine; it would take too long to explain, you wouldn't believe
me--you couldn't--and so I am deserting you. That is the word for it,
the one you will use." Fanny gazed at him in a clouding perplexity.
"I can't think it's true." Her voice was dazed. "A thing like this
couldn't be happening to us, to me. It's only for a little, we are both
cross--"
He cut her short with the assurance that what he said he meant.
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