A Cautionary Tale

The water is rubbed into my hair and the black hair is moistened and twirled unprettily. I hope I am not too dry for anyone.

In fact, last night in Britain, a woman came to me. We talked quite a bit about what she was—a cruel fighter. She lives in England. She has vanity, old age, ignorance, and all the rest! If I suffer, I think I please her. We drank bonnyclabber. It was this that gave—We kept talking about what we used to know, when in came another human being in a dress who dusted an inner form and the faience washstand. Did not see the babe leave, although she’s all gone.

My mother said she herself would stay longer if not for my certain coolness, my unspecified dimness, my slowing down, my not-looking, my over-heard meekness in this phrase which portrays me and betrays me and portrays me and portrays me. I have fewer goings-on, even cried at times, went on lying on part of my face on the bed, fell asleep! My first few nights in sight are such rubbish. She does not want to love such a lackluster person.

The worst jolt about being loved is when it will have to start.