We question each other.
"Do you remember ?"--"Oh, yes." And when some more precise and intimate detail prompts the question we only reply, "A little." Our separation and the great happenings past which the world has whirled have made the past recoil and shaped a deep ditch.

Nothing has changed; but when we look we see.
Once, after we had recalled to each other an enchanted summer evening, I said, "We loved each other," and she answered, "I remember." I call her by her name, in a low voice, so as to draw her out of the dumbness into which she is falling.
She listens to me, and then says, placidly, despairingly, "'_Marie_,'-- you used to say it like that.

I can't realize that I had the same name." A few moments later, as we talked of something else, she said to me at last, "Ah, that day we had dreams of travel, about our plans--_you were there_, sitting by my side." In those former times we lived.

Now we hardly live any more, since we have lived.

They who we were are dead, for we are here.