"Then I hope she's dead!"
"I don't know."
"I can't bear her to be alive. Oh, Zebedee, why didn't you wait for me?"
"I should have loved you less, child."
"Would you? You never loved her like this?"
"She wasn't you."
In a little while she said, "I don't understand love. Why should we matter so much to each other? So much that we're afraid? Or do we only think we do? Perhaps that's it. It can't matter so much as we make out, because we die and it's all over, and no one cares any more about our little lives." On a sigh he heard her last words. "We mustn't struggle."
"Struggle?"
"For what we want."
To this he made no answer, but he had a strange feeling that the firm, fine body he held was something more perishable than glass and might be broken with a word.