He drew compellingly upon his new characters to keep him out of this melancholy channel; but they ebbed and ebbed; he could not hold them. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. Where was the message? Where was Gerald? Until he came back, what was there for her to do? Eh bien, it made no sense to do anything. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. I was his wife.
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