“Conrad . . . there is something I must confess.” “Confess that you hate me, and I will go now and never ask again.” The shawl slides from his grasp and drapes over the footboard of the 315bed. Then his hands take my waist, drawing me closer, forcing me to tip my head back to hold his gaze. “Confess you do not feel as I feel.” I cannot, and he knows it.
