Where to I don't know. I never knew where he would
end by taking me to. And you, dear friend, mustn't make his relict
your wife. It's not right for you, it wouldn't be right for me. We
should pretend that nothing had happened, that I'd made a mistake,
that it was luckily and happily over, and that I was doing now what
I ought to have done in the beginning. All that's quite false. I
suppose everybody has one great thing to do in life, one thing that
determines what they're to be and how they're to end. I did my great
thing, for good or evil, when I became his wife. I can't undo it or
go back on it, I can't become what I was before I did it. I can't be
now what you think me and wish me to be. His stamp is on me.
I write very sadly; for I didn't love him. And now I can love
nobody. I shall never quite know what that means. Or is it possible
that I loved him without knowing it, and hated him sometimes just
because of that? I mean, felt so terribly the times when he
was--well, what you know he was sometimes.
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