“I won't be seeing you again," he said. "It's just as well. I've told you too much to want to see you again." I wasn't so sure of that. It seemed possible that he would want to see me later on for that very reason. I alone, he believed, possessed an unfalsified image of his life. But that could make him hate me; perhaps he would feel that I had taken his wife from him, this time irrevocably—if he really believed that his own memory deceived him and only mine remained clear.”
Book:The Night in Lisbon
