"Mine, too. 'A baby is born to change others' lives.'"

"'A woman is torn by love till she dies.'" she added.

"I simply love her and her poems. Don't get jealous, but I must confess. I have even clipped out all her published poems I could get hold of." He pulled out a scrapbook from a drawer near the sofa and shove it to her.

Marie was able to open it but her hand became limp. Maybe out of excitement.

"Marie, what's the matter? Are you okay?"

"Tom, kindly take me home," she asked softly.

Her paleness released all his efforts to ask any questions and obeyed her request.

* * *