Jonas swallowed. Rosemary, and her laughter, had begun to seem real to him, and he pictured her looking up from the bed of memories, shocked.
The Giver continued. “I backed off, gave her more little delights. But everything changed, once she knew about pain.
I could see it in her eyes.” “She wasn’t brave enough?” Jonas suggested.
The Giver didn’t respond to the question. “She insisted that I continue, that I not spare her.
She said it was her duty. And I knew, of course, that she was correct.
“I couldn’t bring myself to inflict physical pain on her. But I gave her anguish of many kinds. Poverty, and hunger, and terror.
“I had to, Jonas. It was my job. And she had been chosen.” The Giver looked at him imploringly. Jonas stroked his hand.
“Finally one afternoon, we finished for the day. It had been a hard session.
I tried to finish—as I do with you—by transferring something happy and cheerful.
But the times of laughter were gone by then. She stood up very silently, frowning, as if she were making a decision.
Then she came over to me and put her arms around me. She kissed my cheek.”
As Jonas watched, The Giver stroked his own cheek, recalling the touch of Rosemary’s lips ten years before.
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