I simply wondered about the dead because their days had ended and I did not know how I would get through mine.
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“Hella. Hella. One day, when you’re happy, try to forgive me.”
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But that would not be comfort anymore, only torture, for both of us.
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Much has been written of love turning to hatred, of the heart growing cold with the death of love.
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The need to act was like a fever in me, the only act possible was the act of love.
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But it seemed to me that morning that my ancient self had been dreaming the most dangerous dream of all.
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“You may laugh,” she said, humorously, “but there is something in what I say. I began to realize it in Spain—that I wasn’t free, that I couldn’t be free until I was attached—no, committed—to someone.”
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“For a woman,” she said, “I think a man is always a stranger. And there’s something awful about being at the mercy of a stranger.”
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She fitted in my arms, she always had, and the shock of holding her caused me to feel that my arms had been empty since she had been away.
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You don’t have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you never can go back.”