I saw how all these walls had been built, I saw how they were being
destroyed, and I alone always was and always will be. Everything will
pass, but I shall remain. And everything seemed to me strange and
queer--so unnatural--the table and the food upon it, and everything
outside of me. It all seemed to me transparent and light, existing
only temporarily.

"Why don't you eat?" asked my wife.

I smiled:

"Bread--it is so strange."

She glanced at the bread, at the stale, dry crust of bread, and for
some reason her face became sad. Still continuing to look at it, she
silently adjusted her apron with her hands and her head turned
slightly, very slightly, in the direction where the children were
sleeping.

"Do you feel sorry for them?" I asked.

She shook her head without removing her eyes from the bread.

"No, but I was thinking of what happened in our life before."

How incomprehensible! As one who awakens from a long sleep, she
surveyed the room with her eyes and all seemed to her so
incomprehensible. Was this the place where we had lived?

"You were my wife."