She was probably
offering herself a birthday present that morning. . . . On the 4th of
August, 1901, she married me, and set sail for Europe in a great
gale of wind--the gale that affected her heart. And no doubt there,
again, she was offering herself a birthday gift--the birthday gift of
my miserable life. It occurs to me that I have never told you
anything about my marriage. That was like this: I have told you, as
I think, that I first met Florence at the Stuyvesants', in Fourteenth
Street. And, from that moment, I determined with all the
obstinacy of a possibly weak nature, if not to make her mine, at
least to marry her. I had no occupation--I had no business affairs. I
simply camped down there in Stamford, in a vile hotel, and just
passed my days in the house, or on the verandah of the Misses
Hurlbird. The Misses Hurlbird, in an odd, obstinate way, did not
like my presence. But they were hampered by the national
manners of these occasions. Florence had her own sitting-room.
She could ask to it whom she liked, and I simply walked into that
apartment. I was as timid as you will, but in that matter I was like
a chicken that is determined to get across the road in front of an
automobile.
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