But they
appear all the same--importunate, overbearing, inevitable.
We may close our doors to visitors in the flesh; but we are forced to
welcome these phantoms of the memory; to notice them and converse with
them without reserve.
People become like books to me. I read them through, turn the pages
lightly, annotate them, learn them by heart. Sometimes I am at fault; I
see them in a new light. Things that were not clear to me become plain;
what was apparently incomprehensible becomes as straightforward as a
commercial ledger.
It might be a fascinating occupation if I could control the entire
collection of these memories; but I am the slave of those that come
unbidden. In the town it was just the reverse; one impression effaced
another. I did not realise that thought might become a burden.
* * * * *
The time draws on. The last few days my nerves have made me feverish and
restless; to-day for no special reason I opened and read all my letters,
except his.
Pages:
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78