I cannot comprehend what you have written; I cannot interpret what you evidently imagine I must divine in these pages--yet, as I read, striving to understand, all the old familiar pain returns--the hopeless attempt to realise wherein I failed in what you expected of me.
"But how can I, now, be held responsible for your unhappiness and unrest--for the malicious attitude, as you call it, of the world toward you?
Years ago you felt that there existed some occult coalition against you, and that I was either privy to it or indifferent.

I was not indifferent, but I did not believe there existed any reason for your suspicions.

This was the beginning of my failure to understand you; I was sensible enough that we were unhappy, yet could not see any reason for it--could see no reason for the increasing restlessness and discontent which came over you like successive waves following some brief happy interval when your gaiety and beauty and wit fairly dazzled me and everybody who came near you.

And then, always hateful and irresistible, followed the days of depression, of incomprehensible impulses, of that strange unreasoning resentment toward me.
"What could I do?
I don't for a moment say that there was nothing I might have done.

Certainly there must have been something; but I did not know what.