“She did not love me as I loved her, what I wanted she could not give. Ardor she might grant me, yes, but that is not the same as love. I did not understand that then, too lost in flights of fancy, but I see it now. I was enamored of an illusion for years on end, living on memories half-remembered and half-fabricated. At Oldhouse, something gave away. Even a sleepwalker must open his eyes at one point.”
