It had come to him in the room, quick as a flashlight, when she had made her confession; it was insistent now as he stood looking at the closed door through which they had disappeared.
For him to believe wholly and unquestioned Josephine's confession was like asking him to believe that da Vinci's masterpiece hanging in the big room had been painted by a blind man.

In her he had embodied all that he had ever dreamed of as pure and beautiful in a woman, and the thought came now.

Had Josephine, for some tremendous reason known only to herself and Jean, tried to destroy his great love for her by revealing herself in a light that was untrue?
Instantly he told himself that this could not be so.

If he believed in Josephine at all, he must believe that she had told him the truth.

And he did believe, in spite of the whispering doubt.