It was a ring he had brought me, only three days before.
He stooped to pick it up, and I saw his features contract as if in pain, as he laid it back upon the table.

And his voice was unsteady, as he said, not looking at me while he spoke, "I hope you won't send any of these things back.

If there's anything you're willing to keep, because I gave it to you, I'd like it very much.

The rest send to your church, or somewhere.

I don't want to have to look at them again." By this time I was sobbing, and, sitting down by the table, had buried my face on my arms.
"I'm sorry that it makes you feel so," he said, "but it can't be helped.
Don't cry, I can't bear to see you cry.