Perhaps It Is Better To Wake Up

…there Would Be No Powerful Will Binding Hers In That Blind Persistence With Which Men And Women Believe They Have A Right To Impose A Private Will Upon A Fellow Creature…and Yet She Had Loved Him- Sometimes. Often She Had Not. What Did It Matter! What Could Love, The Unsolved Mystery, Count For In The Face Of This Possession Of Self-assertion Which She Suddenly Recognized As The Strongest Impulse Of Her Being.

I Trust It Will Not Be Giving Away Professional Secrets To Say That Many Readers Would Be Surprised, Perhaps Shocked, At The Questions Which Some Newspaper Editors Will Put To A Defenseless Woman Under The Guise Of Flattery.

The Bird That Would Soar Above The Level Plain Of Tradition And Prejudice Must Have Strong Wings. It Is A Sad Spectacle To See The Weaklings Bruised, Exhausted, Fluttering Back To Earth.

She Was Still Under The Spell Of Her Infatuation. She Had Tried To Forget Him, Realizing The Inutility Of Remembering. But The Thought Of Him Was Like An Obsession, Ever Pressing Itself Upon Her. It Was Not That She Dwelt Upon Details Of Their Acquaintance, Or Recalled In Any Special Or Peculiar Way His Personality; It Was His Being, His Existence, Which Dominated Her Thought, Fading Sometimes As If It Would Melt Into The Mist Of The Forgotten, Reviving Again With An Intensity Which Filled Her With An Incomprehensible Longing.

In The Procession I Should Feel The Crushing Feet, The Clashing Discords, The Ruthless Hands And Stifling Breath. I Could Not Hear The Rhythm Of The March.