never seen since, that her eyes, though they avoided mine, shone with sorrow and happiness, mixed with surprise and incredulity, and that she looked as if terror stricken, as if she was about to break through the window and fly away. I knew that she had given me her consent, but I did not know what she did or did not say.
She remembered everything though: she could recite as out of a familiar book every word I said, and my behavior to her was like a picture invisible to myself, which she could describe with vividness and detail, including, naturally, the gaudy motion-picture flash that I so much wanted to forget. The stillness of the night was our reviewing time. I was frequently questioned, tested, required to repeat the words of that occasion. But I had to be prompted and corrected again and again, like a "D" student.
These reviews became less frequent, but whenever I saw that faraway look in her eyes, her abstraction, the gentle expression assumed by her face, her deepening dimples, I knew that she was again reviewing the ancient lesson herself. I dreaded the moment when she would come to the movie scene, but I knew that she would inexorably come to it, and would insist on dwelling upon it.
She did not think it funny; she did not even laugh at what I considered funny or shameful. The reason for this was clear to me: it was because she loved me, because she loved me so much and so truly.
The late spring of the past year was my happiest and busiest time. My heart was at peace, though at the same time I became very much occupied with a thousand things. We began to walk on the street together. We went to the park a few times, but most of the time we were hunting for a place
