Rachel

“Sue,’ she said. ‘This house is yours.’

‘I don’t want it,’ I said.

‘The money is yours. Half of your mother’s money. All of it, if you wish. I have claimed none of it. You shall be rich.’

‘I don’t want to be rich. I never wanted to be rich. I only want—’

But I hesitated. My heart was too full. Her gaze was too close, too clear. I thought how I had seen her, last—not at the trial, but on the night that Gentleman died. Her eyes had glittered. They did not glitter now. Her hair had been curled. Now it was smooth, unpinned, she had put it back and tied it with a simple ribbon. Her hands did not tremble. They were bare, and marked, as I have said, with spots and smudges of ink. Her brow had ink upon it, too, from where she had pressed it. Her dress was dark, and long, yet fell not quite to the floor. It was silk, but fastened at the front. The highest hook was left undone. I saw the beating of her throat behind it. I looked away.

Then I looked back, into her eyes.

‘I only want you,’ I said.”
― Sarah Waters, Fingersmith