He paused a few minutes. He seemed anxious to speak, yet hesitated; at
last he said, "I am leaving London, Isabel, I can do nothing here, and I
have received letters from comrades in Austria telling me that there
things are ripe for the Revolution."
I started violently: "You are leaving! Leaving London?" I stammered.
"Yes, I shall be able to do better work elsewhere."
I turned suddenly on him.
"And so you mean to say that we are to part? Thus? now? for ever?" A
pained look came into his eyes. He seemed to shrink from personalities.
"No," I continued rapidly, "I will, I must speak. Why should we ruin our
lives? To what idol of our own creation are we sacrificing our happiness?
We Anarchists are always talking of the rights of the individual, why are
you deliberately sacrificing your personal happiness, and mine? The dead
woman was right; I love you, and I know that you love me. Our future shall
not be ruined by a misunderstanding. Now I have spoken, you must answer,
and your answer must be final."
I looked at him whilst the words involuntarily rushed from my lips, and
even before I had finished speaking, I knew what his answer would be.
"An Anarchist's life is not his own. Friendship, comradeship may be
helpful, but family ties are fatal; you have seen what they did for my
poor friend. Ever since I was fifteen I have lived solely for the Cause;
you are mistaken in thinking that I love you in the way you imply.
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