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Book, page 332 / 370 Then there was a silence again. "You are dressed fine today," he said to her. "Am I?" she smiled. He was never able to make out quite what she felt, what she was feeling. But she had a quiet little air of proprietorship in him, which he did not like. "You will stay to dinner tonight, won't you?" she said. "No--not tonight," he said. And then, awkwardly, he added: "You know. I think it is better if we are friends--not lovers. You know--I don't feel free. I feel my wife, I suppose, somewhere inside me. And I can't help it---" She bent her head and was silent for some moments. Then she lifted her face and looked at him oddly. "Yes," she said. "I am sure you love your wife." The reply rather staggered him--and to tell the truth, annoyed him. "Well," he said. "I don't know about love. But when one has been married for ten years--and I did love her--then--some sort of bond or something grows. I think some sort of connection grows between us, you know. And it isn't natural, quite, to break it.--Do you know what I mean?" She paused a moment. Then, very softly, almost gently, she said: "Yes, I do. I know so well what you mean." He was really surprised at her soft acquiescence. What _did_ she mean? "But we can be friends, can't we?" he said. "Yes, I hope so. Why, yes! Goodness, yes! I should be sorry if we couldn't be friends."
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