Do you remember my wife?
I saw Blanche little by little trying all her tricks.
With infinite patience she prepared to snare me and bind me.
She wanted to bring me down to her level; she cared nothing
for me, she only wanted me to be hers. She was willing to do
everything in the world for me except the one thing I wanted:
to leave me alone."
I was silent for a while.
"What did you expect her to do when you left her?"
"She could have gone back to Stroeve," he said irritably.
"He was ready to take her."
"You're inhuman," I answered. "It's as useless to talk to you
about these things as to describe colours to a man who was
born blind."
He stopped in front of my chair, and stood looking down at me
with an expression in which I read a contemptuous amazement.
"Do you really care a twopenny damn if Blanche Stroeve is
alive or dead?"
I thought over his question, for I wanted to answer it
truthfully, at all events to my soul.
"It may be a lack of sympathy in myself if it does not make
any great difference to me that she is dead. Life had a great
deal to offer her. I think it's terrible that she should have
been deprived of it in that cruel way, and I am ashamed
because I do not really care.
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