I have been through Provence; I have seen
Africa; I have visited Asia to see, in Ceylon, in a darkened room,
my poor girl, sitting motionless, with her wonderful hair about
her, looking at me with eyes that did not see me, and saying
distinctly: "Credo in unum Deum omnipotentem. . . . Credo in
unum Deum omnipotentem." Those are the only reasonable words
she uttered; those are the only words, it appears, that she ever will
utter. I suppose that they are reasonable words; it must be
extraordinarily reasonable for her, if she can say that she believes
in an Omnipotent Deity. Well, there it is. I am very tired of it. all.
. . .
For, I daresay, all this may sound romantic, but it is tiring, tiring,
tiring to have been in the midst of it; to have taken the tickets; to
have caught the trains; to have chosen the cabins; to have
consulted the purser and the stewards as to diet for the quiescent
patient who did nothing but announce her belief in an Omnipotent
Deity. That may sound romantic--but it is just a record of fatigue.
I don't know why I should always be selected to be serviceable. I
don't resent it--but I have never been the least good. Florence
selected me for her own purposes, and I was no good to her;
Edward called me to come and have a chat with him, and I
couldn't stop him cutting his throat.
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