It moved her with recollections. She could hear again the ripple of the

water, the flapping sail. She could see the glint of the moon upon the

bay, and could feel the soft, gusty beating of the hot south wind. A

subtle current of desire passed through her body, weakening her hold

upon the brushes and making her eyes burn.

There were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She was

happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one

with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some

perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and

unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned

to dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone and

unmolested.

There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why,--when it did

not seem worthwhile to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life

appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms

struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation. She could not work on

such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her blood.




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