No One Loves Me, - No One

. . . It Seemed To Me That Where Others Had Prayed Before To Their God, In Their Joy Or In Their Agony, Was Of Itself A Sacred Place.

Take Care. -if You Do Not Speak- I Shall Claim You As My Own In Some Presumptuous Way. -send Me Away At Once, If I Must Go; -margaret!-

I Never Did Write A Biography, And I Don't Exactly Know How To Set About It; You See I Have To Be Accurate And Keep To The Facts, A Most Difficult Thing For A Writer Of Fiction.

Blot Your Misdeeds Out (if You Are Particularly Conscientious), By A Good Deed, As Soon As You Can; Just As We Did A Correct Sum At School On The Slate, Where An Incorrect One Was Only Half Rubbed Out. It Was Better Than Wetting Our Sponge With Our Tears; Both Less Loss Of Time Where Tears Had To Be Waited For, And A Better Effect At Last.

If Mr. Thornton Was A Fool In The Morning, As He Assured Himself At Least Twenty Times He Was, He Did Not Grow Much Wiser In That Afternoon. All That He Gained In Return For His Sixpenny Omnibus Ride, Was A More Vivid Conviction That There Never Was, Never Could Be, Any One Like Margaret; That She Did Not Love Him And Never Would; But That She — No! Nor The Whole World — Should Never Hinder Him From Loving Her.