"I am going to her," he said, "to ask her for the whole truth--about her
past."
"Is any woman capable of telling the truth to that extent?" questioned
Saltash.
"I shall know if she doesn't," said Bunny doggedly.
"And will that help?" The note of mockery that was never long absent from
his voice sounded again. "Isn't it possible--sometime--to try to know too
much? There is such a thing as looking too closely, _mon ami_. And then
we pay the price."
"Do you imagine I could ever be satisfied not knowing?" said Bunny.
Saltash shrugged his shoulders. "I merely suggested that you are going
the wrong way to satisfy yourself. But that is your affair, not mine. The
gods have sent you a gift, and because you don't know what it is made
of, you are going to pull it to pieces to find out. And presently you
will fling it away because you cannot fit it together again. You don't
realize--you never will realize--that the best things in life are the
things we never see and only dimly understand."
A vein of sincerity mingled with the banter in his voice, and Bunny was
aware of a curious quality of reverence, of something sacred in a waste
place.
It affected him oddly. Convinced though he was that in one point at least
Saltash had sought to deceive him it yet influenced him very strongly in
Saltash's favour.
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