To me? To whom?
Then, worn out, beaten, empty-brained, he sat down on the chair which
Christine had just left. Like her, he let his head fall into his
hands. When he raised it, the tears were streaming down his young
cheeks, real, heavy tears like those which jealous children shed, tears
that wept for a sorrow which was in no way fanciful, but which is
common to all the lovers on earth and which he expressed aloud: "Who is this Erik?" he said.