There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter. ‘But this is not to my blame, grandpére. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. At length, the body was brought towards him.
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