“They mould one insensibly. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. “It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. . “You are of the genus obstinate,” he said. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. Everything in the world to live for!—fame that he could not reap, love that he must not take! What was all this pother about hell as a future state? By and by things began to stir on the table: little invisible things. And then they disgorged. “Yes,” she answered, looking away.
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