But The Beginning Of Things, Of A

A Bird With A Broken Wing Was Beating The Air Above, Reeling, Fluttering, Circling Disabled, Down, Down To The Water

There Would Be No One There To Live For Her During Those Coming Years; She Would Live For Herself. There Would Be No Powerful Will Bending Hers In That Blind Persistance With Which Men And Women Believe They Have A Right To Impose A Private Will Upon A Fellow-creature. A Kind Intention Or A Cruel Intention Made The Act Seem No Less A Crime As She Looked Upon It In That Brief Moment Of Illumination.

I'm Going To Pull Myself Together For A While And Think-try To Determine What Character Of A Woman I Am; For, Candidly, I Don't Know. By All The Codes Which I Am Acquainted With, I Am A Devilishly Wicked Specimen Of The Sex. But Some Way I Can't Convince Myself That I Am. I Must Think About It.

The Voice Of The Sea Is Seductive, Never Ceasing, Whispering, Clamoring, Murmuring, Inviting The Soul To Wander In Abysses Of Solitude.

The Generous Abundance Of Her Passion, Without Guile Or Trickery, Was Like A White Flame Which Penetrated And Found Response In Depths Of His Own Sensuous Nature That Had Never Yet Been Reached.