I had written thus far. It had taken me many hours. I had written far into the night while the fire died down and the noises of London faded and grew dim. I had written thus far, and I put down my pen and wondered what you would say. Would you bid me go or stay? Would you choose for me the high road of adventure or the low road of safety? And then, quite suddenly, and naturally I heard your voice, Clare, and I saw your vivid face as you turned to look at me and held out your hand for the bunch of country flowers.
“Pain is worthwhile sometimes,” you said.