Snow is
still merciful about them.
Linda dear, I know what you're dying to know. You want to know
whether Mr. Snow is in the same depths of mourning as when our
acquaintance first began. This, my dear child, is very
reprehensible of you. Young girls with braids down their
backs--and by the way, Linda, you did not tell me what happened
"after the ball was over." Did you go to school the next morning
with braids down your back, or wearing your coronet? Because on
that depends what I have to say to you now; if you went with
braids, you're still my little girl chum, the cleanest, finest
kid I have ever known; but if you wore your coronet, then you're
a woman and my equal and my dearest friend, far dearer than Dana
even; and I tell you this, Linda, because I want you always to
understand that you come first.
I have tried and tried to visualize you, and can't satisfy my
mind as to whether the braids are up or down. Going on the
assumption that they are up, and that life may in the near future
begin to hold some interesting experiences for you, I will tell
you this, beloved child: I don't think Mr. Snow is mourning
quite so deeply as he was. I have not been asked, the last four
or five trips we have been on, to carry an armload of exquisite
flowers to the shrine of a departed love. I have been privileged
to take them home and arrange them in my room and Dana's. And I
haven't heard so much talk about loneliness, and I haven't seen
such tired, sad eyes.
Pages:
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358