“Do you remember when I gave this to you?” She nodded. “Our two-week anniversary, I believe it was.” “I didn’t tell you then what was inside,” he said, “not because I did not want you to know, but because I could not face the truth of it myself. I wrote these words down and folded them up and put them where they would be near you. It was selfish. I wanted to speak them to you, but not to face the consequences. But here.” He held out the slip of paper. “Read them now.” As she read, her expression changed. They were familiar, lines from Lord Byron. There yet are two things in my destiny— A world
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