It goes without saying I couldn't begin.
I couldn't frame a sentence. So I suggested we should have some tea.
Accordingly, we had some tea. She poured it out, and we discussed the
furniture of the drawing-room. I might have known she had fine taste in
furniture. She had. When tea was over, she seemed to be getting a little
impatient. Then I rang for the tray to be removed, and as soon as we
were alone again, I started: 'Miss Payne--'
Now, when I started like that, I hadn't the ghost of a notion what I was
going to say. And then the idea stepped into my head all of a sudden:
'Why not tell her exactly what your situation is? Why not be frank with
her, and see how it works?' It was an inspiration. Though I didn't
believe in it, and thought in a kind of despair that I was spoiling my
chances, it was emphatically an inspiration, and I was obliged to obey
it.
So I told her what Darcy had told me. I explained how it was that I
couldn't live long. I said I had nothing to hope for in this world, no
joy, nothing but blackness and horror. I said how tremendously I was in
love with her. I said I knew she wasn't in love with me, but at the same
time I thought she ought to have sufficient insight to see that I was
fundamentally a decent chap.
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