It was in the garden one morning in July, just before breakfast.
It was a burning day, and massive white clouds were forming themselves
on the horizon. The storm on that day was the heaviest I recollect, and
the lightning struck one of our chimneys and dashed it through the roof.
His passion was informed with intellect, and his intellect glowed with
passion. There was nothing in him merely animal or merely rational. . .
. To endure, to endure! Can there be any endurance without a motive?
I have no motive.
March 10th.--My sister and my brother-in-law came to-day and I wished
them away. Now that my husband is dead I discover that the frequent
visitors to our house came to see him and not me. There must be
something in me which prevents people, especially women, from being
really intimate with me. To be able to make friends is a talent which I
do not possess, and if those who call on me are prompted by kindness
only, I would rather be without them. The only attraction towards me
which I value is that which is irresistible. Perhaps I am wrong, and
ought to accept with thankfulness whatever is left to me if it has any
savour of goodness in it.
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