We met almost openly.... We talked of ten thousand
things, and of ourselves. We loved. We made love. There is no prose
of mine that can tell of hours transfigured. The facts are nothing.
Everything we touched, the meanest things, became glorious. How can I
render bare tenderness and delight and mutual possession? I sit here at
my desk thinking of untellable things.
I have come to know so much of love that I know now what love might be.
We loved, scarred and stained; we parted--basely and inevitably, but at
least I met love.
I remember as we sat in a Canadian canoe, in a reedy, bush-masked
shallow we had discovered operating out of that pine-shaded Woking
canal, how she fell talking of the things that happened to her before
she met me again....
She told me things, and they so joined and welded together other things
that lay disconnected in my memory, that it seemed to me I had always
known what she told me. And yet indeed I had not known nor suspected it,
save perhaps for a luminous, transitory suspicion ever and again.
She made me see how life had shaped her.
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