It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. Earles’ waiting-room who would march you straight off to a registrar’s office. And that’s why I’m at your service. We simply can’t get away. Anyone else who finds out must be killed, otherwise, you insure death or worse for us. I thought then perhaps you didn’t care, that you were like so many of them. If I let you believe I did not love you, and they found me, your shame would be negligible. I have suffered—I have sinned—I have repented. . You're welcome to it. " "Didn't some of them … try to touch you?" "Not the true unfortunates. There’s the internal factor as well as the external.
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