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but I’d rather have the bad hours than not believe in the good ones,
so long—as if in the end they were bound to wear people out. Sometimes life seems like a match between one’s self and one’s gaolers. The gaolers, of course, are one’s mistakes; and the question is, who’ll hold out longest? When I think of that, life, instead of being too long, seems as short as a winter day… Oh, look, the lights already, over there in the valley … this day’s over. And suddenly you find you’ve missed your chance. You’ve been beaten…”
At the end of the long road on which the regular rap of the horses’ feet was beating out the hours, she saw him standing, waiting for her, watching for her through the night. —————
