"What makes you think that she loves you, Harry?"
"Why, what do you mean? She faked her own death and gave up her life here to save me. Is that not love?"
"Not necessarily. When you asked her to marry you, what did she do?"
"She refused me. She said that after all we'd done, after what we'd been through, that we could never have that life. That through work we were as close as we could be."
"Did you agree?"
"No." His face was stricken. "No."
"What made you think that you loved her?"
"There was a connection there that I've never felt with anyone else, an intimacy of relationship. When a friend, a colleague, suggested I was in love with her, I began to open my mind to the possibility. What makes you question it?"
"When she left, why did you let her go?"
"I had to."
"Because—"
"Because one of us had to leave."
"Why didn't you go with her or go and find her?"
"I don't know."
"I'm sorry but if she loved you, why did she move in with another man?"
"She thought we would never see each other again," he protested.
"It is your heart not mine but I just don't see how a woman could treat the man she loved with such spite and viciousness. Perhaps I'm wrong but is she really the best that you can do?"
He watched her for a long time, pondering the memories.