said.
“No,” said Kate. “Apparently it is I who am wrong.”
“Yes, I think you are,” said Teresa. “You think there is only love. Love is only such a little bit.”
“And what is the rest?”
“How can I tell you if you do not know?—But do you think Ramón is no more to me than a lover?”
“A husband!” said Kate.
“Ah!” Teresa put her head aside with an odd impatience. “Those little words! Those little words! Nor either a husband.—He is my life.”
“Surely it is better for one to live one’s own life!”
“No! It is like seed. It is no good till it is given. I know. I kept my own life for a long time. As you keep it longer, it dies. And I tried to give it to God. But I couldn’t, quite. Then they told me, if