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Married people grow like each other.
At the time it seemed to me that if I could have her once more—however quickly and crudely and unsatisfactorily—I would be at peace again:
It was as though our love were a small creature caught in a trap and bleeding to death: I had to shut my eyes and wring its neck.
If we are extinguished by death, as I still try to believe, what point is there in leaving some books behind any more than bottles, clothes or cheap jewellery?
