It was growing colder and the men passing had flipped up the collars of
their overcoats. This change was kind to her. It would have been kinder
still had everything changed, weather, streets, and people, and had she
been whisked away, to wake in some high, fresh-scented room, alone, and
statuesque within and without, as in her virginal and colorful past.
Inside the taxicab she wept impotent tears. That she had not been happy
with Anthony for over a year mattered little. Recently his presence had
been no more than what it would awake in her of that memorable June. The
Anthony of late, irritable, weak, and poor, could do no less than make
her irritable in turn--and bored with everything except the fact that in
a highly imaginative and eloquent youth they had come together in an
ecstatic revel of emotion. Because of this mutually vivid memory she
would have done more for Anthony than for any other human--so when she
got into the taxicab she wept passionately, and wanted to call his
name aloud.
Miserable, lonesome as a forgotten child, she sat in the quiet apartment
and wrote him a letter full of confused sentiment:
* * * * *
.
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