He stepped back further. I might as well try to build a ladder to heaven. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. No one will ever love you as I love you now. And if one were to love some one very much, it’s just so that one would be blindest, just when one wanted most to see. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident.
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