in of which you cannot trace cannot be seriously considered. It
is an illusion. Or perhaps mine was a physical state, some sort of
disease akin to melancholia which is a form of insanity? The only
moments of relief I could remember were when she and I would start
squabbling like two passionate infants in a nursery, over anything under
heaven, over a phrase, a word sometimes, in the great light of the glass
rotunda, disregarding the quiet entrances and exits of the ever-active
Rose, in great bursts of voices and peals of laughter. . . .

I felt tears come into my eyes at the memory of her laughter, the true
memory of the senses almost more penetrating than the reality itself. It
haunted me. All that appertained to her haunted me with the same awful
intimacy, her whole form in the familiar pose, her very substance in its
colour and texture, her eyes, her lips, the gleam of her teeth, the tawny
mist of her hair, the smoothness of her forehead, the faint scent that
she used, the very shape, feel, and warmth of her high-heeled slipper
that would sometimes in the heat of the discussion drop on the floor with
a crash, and which I would (always in the heat of the discussion) pick up
and toss back on the couch without ceasing to argue. And besides being
haunted by what was Rita on earth I was haunted also by her waywardness,
her gentleness and her flame, by that which the high gods called Rita
when speaking of her amongst themselves. Oh, yes, certainly I was
haunted by her but so was her sister Therese--who was crazy. It proved
nothing. As to her tears, since I had not caused them, they only aroused
my indignation. To put her head on my shoulder, to weep these strange
tears, was nothing short of an outrageous liberty. It was a mere
emotional trick. She would have just as soon leaned her head against the
over-mantel of one of those tall, red granite chimney-pieces in order to
weep comfortably. And then when she had no longer any need of support
she dispensed with it by simply telling me to go away. How convenient!
The request had sounded pathetic, almost sacredly so, but then it might
have been the exhibition of the coolest possible impudence. With her one
could not tell. Sorrow, indifference, tears, smiles, all with her seemed
to have a hidden meaning. Nothing could be trusted. . . Heavens! Am I
as crazy as Therese I asked myself with a passing chill of fear, while
occupied in equalizing the ends of my neck-tie.