” He shook his head. He cannot. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. He might solve the riddle. . ‘I have not asked for this trouble from anyone. But she does not resemble you in any other way. Die, indeed! We’re going to do work; we’re going to unfold about each other; we’re going to have children. ” “But Hainault—was—a pal.
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