I want his kisses and
his arms about me. He is mine! He loved me once! I have only
given him up because I thought it a fine thing to play the saint.
It is only an acted lie. I would rather be evil, and he loved me.
Why do I deceive myself? I want him. I care for nothing else at
the bottom of my heart--his love, his kisses!"
And towards the end. "My God, what am I saying? Have I no shame,
no strength? O God, help me!"
And there the diary closes.
I looked among the letters lying between the pages of the book.
Most of them were signed simply "Chris." or "Christopher." But one
gave his name in full, and it was a name I know well as that of a
famous man, whose hand I have often shaken. I thought of his hard-
featured, handsome wife, and of his great chill place, half house,
half exhibition, in Kensington, filled constantly with its smart,
chattering set, among whom he seemed always to be the uninvited
guest; of his weary face and bitter tongue. And thinking thus
there rose up before me the sweet, sad face of the woman of the
miniature, and, meeting her eyes as she smiled at me from out of
the shadows, I looked at her my wonder.
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