I miss Desmond every hour, and some great monstrous demon seems to be clutching at me--at you--at England--everything one loves and would die for--all day long.
But don't imagine that I ever _doubt_ for one moment.

Not I-- For right is right, since God is God, And right the day must win; To doubt would be disloyalty, To falter would be sin.
I know that's not good poetry.

But I just love it--because it's plain and commonplace, and expresses just what ordinary people feel and think.
'Oh, why was I such a fool about Elizabeth! Now that you are at a safe distance--and of course on the understanding that you never, never say a word to me about it--I positively will and must confess that I was jealous of her about you--yes, about you, Arthur--because you talked to her about Greek--and about ash for aeroplanes--and I couldn't talk about them.

There's a nice nature for you! Hadn't you better get rid of me while you can?
But the thing that torments me is that I can never have it quite out with Desmond.

I told him lies, simply.