They knew very well why he hadn't: because of the enormity of the knife descending and cutting into living flesh; because of the unbearable blood

Not everything is about money. You didn't even say, hello. You are not your sad little wallet.

I wrote your sins on sand because I forgave you since.

He asked himself whether it could be that he was in love with her, and then hoped he was not; hoped it not so much for his own sake as for that of the amatory passion itself. If this was love, love had been overrated.

Written By Henry James

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