I have no feeling of
jealousy...."
"You? Jealousy!" he said, looking at me scornfully. "Why should you be
jealous?"
"I loved her too," I said.
He looked at me. In spite of myself the colour flooded my face. He
looked at me from head to foot--my plainness, my miserable physique, my
lameness, my feeble frame--everything was comprehended in the scorn of
that glance.
"No," I said, "you need not suppose that she ever realised. She did not.
I would have died rather than have spoken of it. But I will not talk
about her. I will not."
He drew away from me. His face was grave; the mockery had left it.
"Oh, you English, how strange you are!... In trusting, yes.... But the
things you miss! I understand now many things. I give up my desire. You
shan't smirch your precious memories.... And you, too, must understand
that there has been all this time a link that has bound us.... Well,
that link has snapped. I must go. Meanwhile, after I am gone, remember
that there is more in life, Ivan Andreievitch, than you will ever
understand. Who am I?... Rather ask, what am I? I am a Desire, a
Purpose, a Pursuit--what you like.
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