I can't reason. Only, still, I do know, talk, put off, forget as I may, must is must. Oh, then, and I know, too, you'd weary of me. I know you, M. Nicholas, better than you can ever know yourself, though you have risen from your grave. You shall go back, poor turncoat, and face the clearness, the utterly more difficult, bald, and heartless clearness, as together we faced the dark.
Life is a little while.
And though I have no words to tell what always are and must be foolish reasons because they are not reasons at all but ghosts of memory, I know in my heart that to face the worst is your only hope of peace. Don't let us talk any more. I'll walk half the way, perhaps. Perhaps I will walk all the way. I've talked and talked him nearly past his patience.