" I lived there until I seemed to take it for my own--to know it on
the surface and under it, and over it, and around it; until I had a sort
of morbid jealousy when I found any one who knew it half as well as I
did, or presumed to love it half as much, and dared to say so. You will
please note that I have not gone far from it.
But I have come to feel the need of calm and quiet--perfect peace. I
know again that there is a sort of arrogance in expecting it, but I am
going to make a bold bid for it. I will agree, if you like, that it is
cowardly to say that my work is done. I will even agree that we both
know plenty of women who have cheerfully gone on struggling to a far
greater age, and I do think it downright pretty of you to find me
younger than my years. Yet you must forgive me if I say that none of us
know one another, and, likewise, that appearances are often deceptive.
What you are pleased to call my "pride" has helped me a little. No one
can decide for another the proper moment for striking one's colors.
I am sure that you--or for that matter any other American--never heard
of Huiry. Yet it is a little hamlet less than thirty miles from Paris.
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