Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. If you could see how it gives them souls, women who have taken things for granted, who have given themselves up altogether to pettiness and vanity. That night in his den he smoked many pipes. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. I do not blame you for the act. The doctor and another man were by his bedside when they entered the room, and there were writing materials which had evidently been used close at hand. And what will they do, and where will they go?" "With me—the both of them.
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