"I never got it."
"I'm sorry."
Quite a formal procedure thus far. A letter had miscarried. One could blame the mails for that. And a divorce. Yes, that was formal too ... "whereas the complainant further alleges ..." He felt that his legs were trembling. If he spoke again his voice would be unsteady. He did not want that. But someone had to speak. Not she. She could be silent.
"Anna"—let his voice shake. Perhaps it would help matters. "You've changed...."
"Yes, Erik...."
"I haven't much right to ask for anything else...."
Why in God's name could he think clearly and yet only talk like a blithering fool? He would pause and gather his wits. But then he would start making a speech ... four-score and seven years ago our forefathers....
"I'm sorry you came, Erik...."
This couldn't be Anna. He closed his mouth and stared. A dream full of noises, voices, Anna saying:
"We mustn't waste time regretting or worrying each other about things.... It's much too late now."