"Of course, I like going about and
enjoying myself, but it is hideously tiring. And then after a year or
two of it you begin to realize a sort of sameness. Things lose their
flavour. Then you have odd times of serious thought, and you know that
you have just been going round and round in a circle, that you have done
nothing at all except made some show at enjoying yourself. Now that
isn't very satisfactory, is it?"
"No," Mary answered, "I don't suppose it is."
"Now you," Sybil continued, "you may be dull sometimes, but I don't
suppose you are, and whenever you leave off and think--well, you must
always feel that your time, instead of having been wasted, has been well
and wholesomely spent. I wish I could have that feeling sometimes."
Despite herself, Mary felt that she would have to like this girl. She
was so pretty, so natural, and so deeply in earnest.
"There is no reason why you shouldn't, is there?" she said, more kindly
than she had as yet spoken. "I can assure you that I very often have
the blues, and I don't consider mine by any means the happiest sort of
life.
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