He would sit there gleaming in the light of the fire, and she unable to look at him, because he glowed, and he was beautiful, and she couldn’t stand it. “Please, Katsa,” he finally said. “At least talk to me.” She swung around to face him. “What is there to talk about? You know how I feel, and what I think about it.” “And what I feel? Doesn’t that matter?” His voice was small, so unexpectedly small, in the face of her bitterness that it shamed her.
