"
His work absorbs him; he is young enough to forget.
As to the long accounts of deaths, accidents and scandals, a year or two
ago they might have stirred me in much the same way as the sight of a
fire or a play. Now it amuses me quite as much to watch the smoke from
my chimney, as it ascends and seems to get caught in the tops of the
trees.
Richard is still travelling with his grief, and entertains me
scrupulously with accounts of all the sights he sees and of his lonely
sleepless nights. Are they always as lonely as he makes out?
As in the past, he bores me with his interminable descriptions and his
whole middle-class outlook. Yet for many years he dominated my senses,
which gives him a certain hold over me still. I cannot make up my mind
to take the brutal step which would free me once and for all from him. I
must let him go on believing that our life together was happy.
Why did I read all these letters? What did I expect to find? A certain
vague hope stirred within me that if I opened them I should discover
something unexpected.
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