Be kind to me,
be my friend, and be somebody else's lover, dear Weston. For I am
spoilt for you. 'Her mad folly'--that was what you thought it. Well,
it isn't ended, not even death has ended it. He reaches me still
from where he is--Ah, and what is he doing? I can't think of him
doing nothing. Shall I hear of all he's done some day? Will he tell
me himself, and watch my lips and my eyes as I listen to him? I
don't know. These are dreams, and perhaps I wouldn't have them come
true; for he might do dreadful things again. But I can't marry you.
For to me he is not dead, he lives still, and I am his. I can as
little say whether I like it as I could while he was here. But now,
as then, it is so; whether I like it is little; it is what has come
to me, my lot, my place, my fate, the end of me, the first and last
word about me. And--yes--I am content to have it so. He loved me
very much, and he was a very great man. You'll wonder again, but I'm
a proud woman among women, Weston dear.
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