I don't want love because for years I've only known the humiliation of it. I loved my husband desperately and he ended up killing himself with drink and gambling and left me with nothing. Apart from debts. We were married for twelve years. Everyone told me I shouldn't marry him - but I didn't care. We had plenty of money then but I'd have married him if he hadn't had a cent. He was such fun, lots of friends and we were terribly in love, but in the end he was- bankrupt and had no friends except for the riff raff that sponged off him and bled him to death and the women he with when he went out and got - got blind drunk. I preferred it that way. First I was terribly jealous and very upset and in the end I realized if he didn't have them he'd come home and want me with his breath stinking of whiskey and his face all distorted and all hunched up and I knew it wasn't love that made him passionate, just drink. Me or another woman, it made no difference. And his kisses made me feel sick and his desire horrified me. I should have left but I couldn't. Even when I thought I'd die of shame, even when he got rough with me, I still stayed. How could I leave when I knew I was the only thing standing between him and absolute ruin? He was alone in the car when he crashed it, thank God. He was doing 60 miles an hour on a slippery road and went straight into a tree. I got there before he died. His last words were, "I've always loved you, Mary". And that broke my heart. You see, despite all he'd done I still loved him. Well, you certainly got more than you bargained for when you brought me up here, didn't you. Well, may I have one of your cigarettes, please? Anyway I feel much better.
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