gutenberg. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. Horrible doubts assailed her. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. This young man did not drink because he sought the false happiness that lured men to the bottle. He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man. Wood. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. Everybody, he felt, must be listening behind their papers. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire.
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