Extract from the sixth letter:

"It is not the night I fear, but the day. I hate the sight of this
woman with whom I live, whom I call 'wife.' I shrink from the blow
of her cold lips, the curse of her stony eyes. She has seen, she has
learnt; I feel it, I know it. Yet she winds her arms around my neck,
and calls me sweetheart, and smoothes my hair with her soft, false
hands. We speak mocking words of love to one another, but I know her
cruel eyes are ever following me. She is plotting her revenge, and I
hate her, I hate her, I hate her!"


Part of the seventh letter:

"This morning I went down to the fiord. I told her I should not be
back until the evening. She stood by the door watching me until we
were mere specks to one another, and a promontory of the mountain
shut me from view. Then, turning aside from the track, I made my
way, running and stumbling over the jagged ground, round to the other
side of the mountain, and began to climb again. It was slow, weary
work. Often I had to go miles out of my road to avoid a ravine, and
twice I reached a high point only to have to descend again. But at
length I crossed the ridge, and crept down to a spot from where,
concealed, I could spy upon my own house. She--my wife--stood by the
flimsy bridge. A short hatchet, such as butchers use, was in her
hand. She leant against a pine trunk, with her arm behind her, as
one stands whose back aches with long stooping in some cramped
position; and even at that distance I could see the cruel smile about
her lips.