—Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. Sheila grabbed the gun and laughed hysterically, brandishing the weapon and baying like a bear. 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. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness.
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