That she fought us on the
surface, and yet she hoped. I can't explain her any other way.
Can you? Look how she kept me alive in you all the summer; how
she gave you no peace; how month after month she became more
eccentric and unreliable. The sight of us haunted her--or she
couldn't have described us as she did to her friend. There are
details--it burnt. I read the book afterwards. She is not frozen,
Lucy, she is not withered up all through. She tore us apart
twice, but in the rectory that evening she was given one more
chance to make us happy. We can never make friends with her or
thank her. But I do believe that, far down in her heart, far
below all speech and behaviour, she is glad."
"It is impossible," murmured Lucy, and then, remembering the
experiences of her own heart, she said: "No--it is just
possible."
Youth enwrapped them; the song of Phaethon announced passion
requited, love attained. But they were conscious of a love more
mysterious than this. The song died away; they heard the river,
bearing down the snows of winter into the Mediterranean.
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