That, I think, is manifest. If I did not love you en désespoir, I would assuredly blow off your head. Why am I here—thirty years of loneliness? Because I know women, the good and the bad; and because I could not have the good, I would not take the bad. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world.
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