But alone with Lynda, in the library later, the conflict was renewed.
Never had she been so sweet, so kind. The storm beat against the house
and instead of interfering, seemed to hold them close and--together. It
no longer aroused in Truedale recollections that smarted. It was like an
old familiar guide leading his thought into ways sacred and happy. Then
suddenly, out of a consciousness that knew neither doubt nor fear, he
said:
"You and I, Lyn, were never afraid of truth, were we?"
"Never."
She was knitting again--knitting feverishly and desperately.
"Lyn--I want to tell you--all about it! About something you must know."
Very quietly now, Lynda rolled her work together and tossed it, needles
and all, upon the glowing logs. She was done, forever, with subterfuge
and she knew it. The wool curled, blackened, and gave forth a scorched
smell before the red coals subdued it. Then, with a straight, uplifted
look:
"I'm ready, Con."
"Just before I broke down and went away, Brace once told me that my life
had no background, no colour. Lynda, it is of that background about
which you do not know, that I want to speak." He waited a moment, then
went on:
"I went away--to the loneliest, the most beautiful place I had ever
seen. For a time there seemed to be nobody in the world but the man with
whom I lived and me.
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