I know that she would
give her soul to learn. This she has told me in so many words, and when,
in a delicate way, I try to teach her, she listens humbly, pathetically,
fixing me with her great, gold-flecked eyes, behind which a deep sadness
burns wistfully. Sometimes when I glance up from my book, I see that her
eyes, instead of being bent on hers have been resting long on my face,
and they say as clearly as articulate speech: "Teach me, love me, use
me, do what you will with me. I am yours, your chattel, your thing, till
the end of time."
I lie awake at night and wonder what I shall do with my naked life
sheltered only by the garment of this woman's love, which I have
accepted and cannot repay. I groan aloud when I reflect on the
irremediable mess, hash, bungle I have made of things. Did ever sick man
wake up to such a hopeless welter? Can you be surprised that I regarded
it with dismay? Of course, there is a simple way out of it, and into
the shadowy world which I contemplated so long, at first with mocking
indifference and then with eager longing.
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