. And Judy did. It was the
first time she had ever spoken of him--what he was to her and what her
life had been--to anyone. She made no wail beyond once saying, "I did
not know it was possible that a person could make one suffer so...."

Gradually Boase drew what little story there was to tell from her, but
more than she told him he gathered for himself, from his watching of
her and his knowledge of Killigrew. He was an old man now and a wise
one. The priest in him yearned over her to wean her from her sin, but
the patient wisdom in him told him that not that way had she yet come.
He talked quietly to her, soothing her by his calmness, his lack of
reproaches or adjurations, and presently she was sitting forward in the
pew in the gathering dusk talking more normally.

"There are some sheep who are not only not of this fold," he said at
last, "but who seem as though they never could be on this side of the
grave. Joe has the odd quality of never having felt spiritual want, and
probably he never will."

"It is that uncertainty of edge about him that has always been the
difficulty," she said. "That--oh, it's so difficult to explain. I mean,
he has never seemed to realise the limits of individuality. Woman is
woman to him--not one woman. He's often said that the affinity
made-for-each-other theory must be pure nonsense; that you meet during
your little life hundreds of people who all have more or less of an
affinity for you--some more, some less--and that it's practically your
duty to fuse that alikeness wherever you meet it. Of course he agrees
that among the lot there's bound to be one with whom the overlap is
bigger than it is with any of the others, but then he looks on that as
no reason for thinking that person is the one person for you. There are
probably several more people knocking round with whom your overlap would
be still wider, only you never happen to meet them. And to bind yourself
irrevocably to one would be to prevent your fusing with them if you did
meet them. It works out at this--that the greatest giving and the
greatest taking is the ideal state of affairs. Give to everyone you meet
and take all you can from them. But, you see, my trouble is I have
nothing left to give anyone but him. I've always given him
everything--I want no one and nothing else. And he's wanted so many and
so much. I see the logic and admirable sense of his attitude so clearly
that even while a primitive root jealousy is eating me up