It is the only way to break for ever
the thought that draws her back to him."
"Yes, I see, it is the only way," she said slowly; and the words were
still on her lips when the door opened and Mr. Vanderbridge entered.
"I came for a cup of tea," he began, and added with playful tenderness,
"What is the only way?"
It was the crucial moment, I realized--it was the hour of destiny for
these two--and while he sank wearily into a chair, I looked imploringly
at his wife and then at the letters lying scattered loosely about her.
If I had had my will I should have flung them at him with a violence
which would have startled him out of his lethargy. Violence, I felt was
what he needed--violence, a storm, tears, reproaches--all the things he
would never get from his wife.
For a minute or two she sat there, with the letters before her, and
watched him with her thoughtful and tender gaze. I knew from her face,
so lovely and yet so sad, that she was looking again at invisible
things--at the soul of the man she loved, not at the body. She saw him,
detached and spiritualized, and she saw also the Other One--for while we
waited I became slowly aware of the apparition in the firelight--of the
white face and the cloudy hair and the look of animosity and bitterness
in the eyes.
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