So Each Had A Private Little Sun

Some Folk Want Their Luck Buttered.

You Concede Nothing To Me And I Have To Concede Everything To You.

There Are Accents In The Eye Which Are Not On The Tongue, And More Tales Come From Pale Lips Than Can Enter An Ear. It Is Both The Grandeur And The Pain Of The Remoter Moods That They Avoid The Pathway Of Sound.

My Wicked Heart Will Ramble On In Spite Of Myself. (arabella)

Meanwhile, The Trees Were Just As Green As Before; The Birds Sang And The Sun Shone As Clearly Now As Ever. The Familiar Surroundings Had Not Darkened Because Of Her Grief, Nor Sickened Because Of Her Pain. She Might Have Seen That What Had Bowed Her Head So Profoundly -the Thought Of The World's Concern At Her Situation- Was Found On An Illusion. She Was Not An Existence, An Experience, A Passion, A Structure Of Sensations, To Anybody But Herself.