And ill she fared in the end. But
six or seven years back I had never believed any one could be so delicate
and lovely to another as she. I drove her once, upon a journey, and she
was shy with me, although she was a lady, and above me. She blushed and
looked down. And the strange thing was that she made me feel a kind of
shyness myself, although I was only her servant. Only by looking at me
with her two eyes when she spoke to me, she showed me treasures and beauty
beyond what I knew before; I remember it still. Ay, here I sit,
remembering it yet, and I shake my head and say to myself how strange it
was--how strange! And then she died. And what more? Nothing more. I am
still here, but she is gone. But I should not grieve at her death. I had
been paid beforehand, surely, for that loss, in that she looked at me with
her two eyes--a thing beyond my deserts. Ay, so it must be.
Woman--what do the sages know of woman?
I know a sage, and he wrote of woman. Wrote of woman in thirty volumes of
uniform theatre-poetry: I counted the volumes once in a big bookcase.
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