"You wouldn't know
how to say anything I shouldn't like."
"I doubt if you'd either like or dislike what I want to say," he
returned, moving uncomfortably in his chair and looking at his feet--
he seemed to feel awkward, thoroughly. "You see, all my life--until
I met you--if I ever felt like saying anything, I wrote it instead.
Saying things is a new trick for me, and this--well, it's just this:
I used to feel as if I hadn't ever had any sort of a life at all. I'd
never been of use to anything or anybody, and I'd never had anything,
myself, except a kind of haphazard thinking. But now it's different--
I'm still of no use to anybody, and I don't see any prospect of being
useful, but I have had something for myself. I've had a beautiful
and happy experience, and it makes my life seem to be--I mean I'm
glad I've lived it! That's all; it's your letting me be near you
sometimes, as you have, this strange, beautiful, happy little while!"
He did not once look up, and reached silence, at the end of what he
had to say, with his eyes still awkwardly regarding his feet. She did
not speak, but a soft rustling of her garments let him know that she
had gone back to her chair again.
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