The idea of your being a failure would never have occurred to me. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. No good at all. ‘This is not a place for a man. And for me there is only one treasure-house. “Thanks to you. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. I have yet another.
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