"I am sorry."
Everything was hushed, the tideless sea, the silent wind. Behind them, and still about them, hung the strange dusk of Pontius Pilate. Before them blazed Marseilles.
"You are married?"
"I was married."
"Then your wife is—dead?"
"Yes, Madame, she is dead."
"You grieve?"
"No, I do not grieve."
"Did you not love her?"
"I loved some one I thought was she. It wasn't she."