It is impossible. Everything I do—everything I touch or look at—reminds me of him.
I took up a casual book of poems and the first lines that I saw brought fresh tears to my heart, if not to my eyes:
"Four ducks on a pond,
A grass-bank beyond,
A blue sky of spring,
White clouds on the wing:
What a little thing
To remember for years ...
To remember with tears!"
"It's no use," I said to myself. "The fear meets me everywhere. It's no good my trying to shirk it. I'll go in and see Mrs. Orme."