Manchurian Books

We discussed the fact that
we two were no longer lovers; never before had we faced that. It seems
a strange thing to write, but as I look back, I see clearly that those
several days were the time when Marion and I were closest together,
looked for the first and last time faithfully and steadfastly into each
other's soul. For those days only, there were no pretences, I made no
concessions to her nor she to me; we concealed nothing, exaggerated
nothing. We had done with pretending. We had it out plainly and soberly
with each other. Mood followed mood and got its stark expression.
Of course there was quarreling between us, bitter quarreling, and we
said things to one another--long pent-up things that bruised and crushed
and cut. But over it all in my memory now is an effect of deliberate
confrontation, and the figure of Marion stands up, pale, melancholy,
tear-stained, injured, implacable and dignified.
"You love her?" she asked once, and jerked that doubt into my mind.
I struggled with tangled ideas and emotions. "I don't know what love
is.


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