“No! Well in specks, she did. She was drawn to me. And I think even that she hated. She loved me in moments. But she always took it back, and started bullying. Her deepest desire was to bully me, and there was no altering her. Her will was wrong, from the first.”
“But perhaps she felt you didn’t really love her, and she wanted to make you.”
“My God, it was bloody making.”
“But you didn’t really love her, did you? You did her that wrong.”
“How could I? I began to. I began to love her. But somehow, she always ripped me up. No, don’t let’s talk of it. It was a doom, that was. And she was a doomed woman. This last time, I’d have shot her like I shoot a stoat, if I’d but been allowed: a raving, doomed thing in the shape of a woman! If only I could have shot her, and ended the whole misery! It ought to be allowed. When a woman gets absolutely possessed by her own will, her own will set against everything, then it’s fearful, and she should be shot at last.”
“And shouldn’t men be shot at last, if they get possessed by their own will?”
“Ay!—the same! But I must get free of her, or she’ll be at me again. I wanted to tell you. I must get a divorce if I possibly can. So we must be careful. We mustn’t really be seen together, you and I. I never, never could stand it if she came down on me and you.”
Connie pondered this.
“Then we can’t be together?” she said.
“Not for six months or so. But I think my divorce will go through in September, then till March.”