"It would have been better if she had died," he often said; "it would
have been much better if she had died, for then I should be free,
and she would be free. Now neither is free."
There were times when he did not think at all, when his mind was
away; and, after a long absence of thought, the memory of how he had
lost her for ever would strike him, and then it seemed as if he
could walk no longer, but would like to lie down and die. All the
same, he had to get home, and the sooner he got home the better, for
there was whisky on the table, and that would dull his memory; and,
tottering along the area railings, he thought of the whisky,
understanding the drunkard for the first time and his temptations.
"Anything to forget the agony of living!"
Three or four days afterwards he wrote to her from Riversdale.
Something had to be written, though it was not very clear that
anything could be gained by writing, only he felt he must write just
to wish her goodbye, to show that he was not angry, for he would
like her to know that he loved her always; so he wrote:
"For the last four days I have been hoping to get a letter from you
saying you had changed your mind, and that what was required to
restore you to health was not a long residence in a convent, but the
marriage ceremony.
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