And seeing that she persisted
in ignoring the real things of Life while in my presence, I went
out, cluching the precious paper to my Heart.
JANUARY 15TH. I am alone in my _boudoir_ (which is realy
the old schoolroom, and used now for a sowing room).
My very soul is sick, oh Dairy. How can I face the truth?
How write it out for my eyes to see? But I must. For _something
must be done_. The play is failing.
The way I discovered it was this. Yesterday, being short of
money, I sold my amethist pin to Jane, one of the housemaids,
for two dollars, throwing in a lace coller when she seemed
doubtful, as I had a special purpose for useing funds. Had
father been at home I could have touched him, but mother is
diferent.
I then went out to buy a frame for his picture, which I had
repaired by drawing in the other eye, although licking the Fire
and passionate look of the originle. At the shop I was compeled
to show it, to buy a frame to fit. The clerk was almost
overpowered.
"Do you know him?" she asked, in a low and throbing tone.
"Not intimitely," I replied.
"Don't you love the Play?" she said.
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