That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. “I am sorry that I have murdered you. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. ” He made a little noise in his throat as if something had cried out within him, and for a time they were both too full for speech. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. She had agonized over it for weeks. But really it is much more than that.
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