I forget. Ask your own conscience. ‘She ought to be. Your fingers are even now as stiff as a schoolgirl’s. ’ ‘Why should I?’ ‘Because I can’t live without you!’ ‘That is your own affair, and—’ Melusine broke off, staring at him, shocked realisation kicking in her gut. I'll not forget your two mistresses, Jack. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. All I can say is, it's well meant; and I may add, I'd have made it five minutes ago, if you'd given me the opportunity. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. God! I have cheated myself into a belief that the boy perished! And now my worst fears are realized —he lives!" "As yet," returned Jonathan, with fearful emphasis.
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