He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. He will let you live if it pleases him. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna.
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