His mind had cunningly contorted itself to convince him suicide would be a selfless, heroic act. And at last, I knew that he was too twisted up now for anything I said to reach him. I couldn’t reason with him. I couldn’t plead with him, as I used to do, to let our love keep him alive. And I will not recount, or even force myself to remember, all the details of the terrible day I committed my husband to the sanitarium. This isn’t Paul, I said when he accused me of being his jailer. This isn’t Paul, I said of the seething, silent stranger he became. This isn’t Paul, I said when he accused me of
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