But Whatever Came, She Had Resolved Never

I Dance With People I Despise; Amuse Myself With Men Whose Only Talent Lies In Their Feet, Gain The Disapprobation Of People I Honor And Respect; Return Home At Day Break With My Brain In A State Which Was Never Intended For It; And Arise In The Middle Of The Next Day Feeling Infinitely More, In Spirit And Flesh Like A Liliputian, Than A Woman With Body And Soul. Entry (when She Was Eighteen) In Her Commonplace Book, 1868-1869.

But Whatever Came, She Had Resolved Never Again To Belong To Another Than Herself.

I Don't Mind Walking. I Always Feel So Sorry For Women Who Don't Like To Walk; They Miss So Much--so Many Rare Little Glimpses Of Life; And We Women Learn So Little Of Life On The Whole.

The Generous Abundance Of Her Passion, Without Guile Or Trickery, Was Like A White Flame Which Penetrated And Found Response In Depths Of His Own Sensuous Nature That Had Never Yet Been Reached.

She Looked Into The Distance, And The Old Terror Flamed Up For An Instant, Then Sank Again. Edna Heard Her Father's Voice And Her Sister Margaret's. She Heard The Barking Of An Old Dog That Was Chained To The Sycamore Tree. The Spurs Of The Cavalry Officer Clanged As He Walked Across The Porch. There Was The Hum Of Bees, And The Musky Odor Of Pinks Filled The Air. (last Lines)