And as I dream I still hear in my ears his
final words: "My darling. My woman!"
How wonderfull to have them said to one Night after Night,
the while being in his embrase, his tender arms around one! I
refer to the heroine in the play, to whom he says the above
raptureous words.
Coming home from the theater tonight, still dazed with the
revelation of what I am capable of, once aroused, I asked Miss
Everett if her couzin had said anything about Mr. Egleston being
in love with the Leading Character. She observed:
"No. But he may be. She is very pretty."
"Possably," I remarked. "But I should like to see her in
the morning, when she gets up."
All the girls were perfectly mad about Mr. Egleston,
although pretending merely to admire his Art. But I am being
honest, as I agreed at the start, and now I know, as I sit here
with the soft, although chilly breeses of the night blowing on
my hot brow, now I know that this thing that has come to me is
Love. Morover, it is the Love of my Life. He will never know it,
but I am his. He is exactly my Ideal, strong and tall and
passionate.
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