They are still discussing the madman's letter.
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nd memory permeates me like a subtle drug:The memory of my love for Arabel,The torture, the doubt, the fear, the restless longing,The sleepless nights, the pity for all her sorrows,The speculation about her and her sister,And what her illness was;And whether the man I saw one time was leavingHer door or the next door to it, and if her doorWhether he saw my Arabel or her sister.... The reader of the letter is telling how the writerLeft his wife chasing the lure of women. And it all comes back to me as clear as a vision:The night I sat with Arabel strong but conquered.Whatever I did, I loved her, whatever she was.Madness or love the terrible struggle must end.She took my hand and said, "You must see my room."We stood in the doorway together and on her dresserWas a silver frame with the photograph of a man--I had seen him in life: hair slicked down and partedIn the middle and cheeks stuck out with fatnessPlump from camembert and clicquot, eyelidsThin as skins of onions, cut like dough 'round the eyes."There is his picture," she said, "ask me whatever you will.Take me as mistress or wife, it is yours to decide.But take me as mistress and grow like the picture before you,Take me as wife and be the good man you can be.Choose me as mistress--how can I do less for dearest?Or make me your wife--fate makes me your mistress or wife.""I can leave you," I said. "You can leave me," she echoed,"But how about hate in your heart." "You are right," I replied. The company is now discussing the subject of love--They seem to know little about it. But my wife, who is sitting beside me, exclaims:"Well, what is this jangle of madness and weakness,What has it to do with poetry, tell me?" "Well, it's life," Arabel."There's the story of Hamlet, for instance," I added.Then fell into silence.
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