He used one ghastly word
that made me shudder--unrecognizable. I rang off.
I knew then for the first time the horror of loneliness. I thought
of the poor little man's notebook that I had seen. I thought of his
fearless and lovable ways--of his pathetic little tweed cap, of the
missing button of his jacket, of the bungling darns on his frayed
sleeve. It seemed to me that heaven could mean nothing more than to
roll creaking along country roads, in Parnassus, with the Professor
beside me on the seat. What if I had known him only--how long was
it? He had brought the splendour of an ideal into my humdrum life.
And now--had I lost it forever? Andrew and the farm seemed faint and
far away. I was a homely old woman, mortally lonely and helpless.
In my perplexity I walked to the outskirts of the village and burst
into tears.
Finally I got a grip on myself again. I am not ashamed to say that
I now admitted frankly what I had been hiding from myself. I was in
love--in love with a little, red-bearded bookseller who seemed to me
more splendid than Sir Galahad.
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