“I shall have one in three months—about All Saints’ Day, mynheer.” She spoke with the simplicity of a peasant, to whom life and death and birth and growth are the simplest things in a complex world.
“Are you glad, madame?”
“Glad? No,” she said after a pause, smiling still.
“Are you sorry?”
“No, mynheer.”
“He is an old man, your husband,” I remarked after a long silence.
“Yes, he is old, mynheer.”
“You love him?”
“Love him? No.”