Isabel nodded. “You think I’m soulless,” she said. “That I don’t know—” “Of course I don’t think you’re—” “I do know. I do know what it means to want. To—to only want—” She’d raised her voice and was sorry for it now. It started raining. Hendrik looked at her, startled, and she wanted to tell him—wanted to be done with it, make it someone else’s burden. No one knew of her heart and no one knew of her grief and it was torture.
