Oh Dear! A Drunken Infidel Weaver! Said

What Could He Mean By Speaking So, As If I Were Always Thinking That He Cared For Me, When I Know He Does Not; He Cannot. ... But I Won't Care For Him. I Surely Am Mistress Enough Of Myself To Control This Wild, Strange, Miserable Feeling

It Seemed As Though He Gave Way All At Once; He Was So Languid That He Could Not Control His Thoughts; They Would Wander To Her; They Would Bring Back The Scene,- Not Of His Repulse And Rejection The Day Before But The Looks, The Actions Of The Day Before That. He Went Along The Crowded Streets Mechanically, Winding In And Out Among The People, But Never Seeing Them, -almost Sick With Longing For That One Half-hour-that One Brief Space Of Time When She Clung To Him, And Her Heart Beat Against His-to Come Once Again.

She Lay Down And Never Stirred. To Move Hand Or Foot, Or Even So Much As One Finger, Would Have Been An Exertion Beyond The Powers Of Either Volition Or Motion. She Was So Tired, So Stunned, That She Thought She Never Slept At All; Her Feverish Thoughts Passed And Repassed The Boundary Between Sleeping And Waking, And Kept Their Own Miserable Identity.

What Other People May Think Of The Rightness Or Wrongness Is Nothing In Comparison To My Own Deep Knowledge, My Innate Conviction That It Was Wrong.

One May Be Clogged With Honey And Unable To Rise And Fly.