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" "You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. Now let us forget it. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. Don’t try. ‘I must. Why didn’t he die?” Anna sprang to her feet and walked restlessly up and down the room. But one day he came to me. The man was mad to marry me. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. ‘Burned them, one by one, right before that fellow’s eyes. I love you—unendurably.
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