like snow. “We are good company, after all. You cannot despise me as much as I despise myself.”
Without curtsying, without asking for leave, she turned and walked away.
“Beatrice.” He had not meant to say he despised her; that was too simple a name for what he felt.
He did not know what had driven her attempted apology—did she try to cozen him, or had she simply wanted to have done with her past?—but in spurning it he had also refused the chance to alter their demeanor toward one another. And he had spurned it in the harshest manner he knew how.
If he had simply accepted her apology, could he have put an end to their endless quarreling? He did not know, but perhaps it was not too late.
There was only one way to find out. “Beatrice!”
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