Every time I bite the stalk of a pansy I recall the neighbourhood of
the young Englishman.
Men ought never to use perfumes. The Creator has provided them. But with
women it is different....
* * * * *
To-day is my birthday. No one here knows it. Besides, what woman would
enjoy celebrating her forty-third birthday? Only Lillie Rothe, I am
sure!...
One day I was talking to a specialist about the thousands of women who
are saved by medical science to linger on and lead a wretched
semi-existence. These women who suffer for years physically and are
oppressed by a melancholy for which there seems to be no special cause.
At last they consult a doctor; enter a nursing home and undergo some
severe operation. Then they resume life as though nothing had happened.
Their surroundings are unchanged; they have to fulfil all the duties of
everyday life--even the conjugal life is taken up once more. And these
poor creatures, who are often ignorant of the nature of their illness,
are plunged into despair because life seems to have lost its joy and
interest.
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