be capable of alteration, was indifference; that in my friendship with Gilberte, it was I alone who loved. “That is true,” my love responded, “there is nothing more to be made of that friendship. It will not alter now.” And so the very next day (unless I were to wait for a public holiday, if there was one approaching, some anniversary, the New Year, perhaps, one of those days which are not like other days, on which time starts afresh, casting aside the heritage of the past, declining its legacy of sorrows) I would appeal to Gilberte to terminate our old and to join me in laying the foundations
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