I once more took up Minna's letter, in order to read it carefully word by word. On the first reading I had been overwhelmed by a dreadful fear that, in truth, as she had warned me, something would be revealed that would lower her in my estimation, a terror which restlessly haunted me from line to line, my eyes always running on in advance. This fear diminished as I proceeded; her almost exaggerated repentance because of these innocent entanglements made me smile half pitifully, and when my brows were knitted it was with indignation against this Stephensen; and yet I could not help feeling a sort of gratitude towards him for not having bound her.
An exultant joy at the same time grew upon me: the consciousness that with this letter she laid her fate in my hands. Throughout it was instinct with the feeling that we stood in front of a decisive step, and with the honest resolution that nothing in the past was to be left uncleared. She wanted to be able to say to herself: "I have told him everything, before I allowed things to go further."
And if I now said—and how deeply I felt that I could and had to say so!—"Well, after having heard all this, I think as before, only that you are more precious to me, because I know and understand you better," how could she then draw back? Was not this confidence a permission to speak the language of love?
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