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: I wrote to you every day. A hundred letters... and not a single reply. Mandras
: [takes out her letters from his coat
] I never learned... to read or write.
: Why did you save him? Why didn't you leave him to die? Mandras
: I wanted you to love me again.
[Pulls out 100 letters
: In Albania, I made them read every one of these to me... 'Mandras, I love you,' 'Mandras, I want you,' 'Mandras, when are you coming back?' And then one day, a different letter. 'I don't know how to describe my feelings. It's as if I have been waiting a hundred years to hear from you, waiting a hundred years for you to return. Once, my heart was overflowing with love for you, but now all I feel is emptiness. And I think it was all just a pretense, that I never loved you at all.'