It seems to me that a familiar pair of
shoulders are squaring up to the world again, and a very kind
pair of eyes are brighter with interest. I don't know how you
feel about this; I don't know how I feel about it myself. I am
sure that Eugene Snow is a man who, in the years to come, would
line up beside your father and mine, and I like him immensely.
It is merely a case of not liking him less, but of liking my
unknown man more. I couldn't quite commit the sacrilege, Linda
dear, of sending you a sample of the letters I am receiving, but
they are too fanciful and charming for any words of mine to
describe adequately. I don't know who this man is, or what he
has to offer, or whether he intends to offer anything, but it is
a ridiculous fact, Linda, that I would rather sit with him in a
chimney corner of field boulders, on a pine floor, with a palm
roof and an Ocotillo candle, than to glow in the
parchment-shielded electric light of the halls of a rich man. In
a recent letter, Linda, there was a reference to a woman who wore
"a diadem of crystallized light." It was a beautiful thing and I
could not help taking it personally. It was his way of telling
me that he knew me, and knew my tragedy; and, as I said before, I
am beginning to feel that I have him rather definitely located;
and I can understand the fine strain in him that prompted his
anonymity, and his reasons for it. Of course I am not
sufficiently confident yet to say anything definite, but my heart
is beginning to say things that I sincerely hope my lips never
will be forced to deny.
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