human
My wife died a year later. I couldn't get over it; seemed like I could have killed myself when I thought of any mean thing I might have said to her--not meaning anything, but hasty-like, as a man will. Couldn't seem to get over it. Evenings were just hell; they were so--empty. Even when I was out on the road, there wasn't anybody to write to, anybody that cared. Just sit in a hotel room and think about her. And I just couldn't realize that she was gone. Do you know, Miss Golden, for months, whenever I was coming back to Boston from a trip, it was _her_ I was coming back to, seemed like, even though I _knew_ she wasn't there--yes, and evenings at home when I'd be sitting there reading, I'd think I heard her step, and I'd look up and smile--and she wouldn't be there; she wouldn't _ever_ be there again.... She was a lot like you--same cute, bright sort of a little woman, with light hair--yes, even the same eye-glasses. I think maybe that's why I noticed you particular when I first met you at that lunch and remembered you so well afterward.... Though you're really a lot brighter and better educated than what she was--I can see it now. I don't mean no disrespect to her; she was a good sport; they don't make 'em any better or finer or truer; but she hadn't never had much chance; she wasn't educated or a live wire, like you are.... You don't mind my saying that, do you? How you mean to me what she meant--
gpt
No, I'm glad--