Jeanette --

You seem not to understand the way of things. So innocent, so darling. I can remember how you looked, the light streaming through your golden hair like a halo. The finest silk cannot be a match for the softness. But . . .

But.

You know I love you, dearly, as I love my own two hands. It seems a man could not part with his hands, and, so we all think, the man who would willingly do so is disgusting, lower than the dumbest beast if he could be so willing to give up what makes his life. But Jeanette, I would smile as they span on me, if removing my hands keeps your honor, your soul, as pure as that halo of gold that follows you.

I am talked about in upper circles. Everybody knows to fear my name. They speak of you, too, but with so soft and awed lips that it seems God himself had touched you, in their eyes. How you saw something untainted in me, I will never understand. But I thank you every day for it. I will bless your name forecer. And now, the words we loathe. They must be said.

I can never see you again.