Dead Men Tell No Tales, Mary.

When One Is Writing A Novel In The First Person, One Must Be That Person.

Dead Men Tell No Tales, Mary.

Here Was The Freedom I Desired, Long Sought-for, Not Yet Known Freedom To Write, To Walk, To Wander, Freedom To Climb Hills, To Pull A Boat, To Be Alone.

Life Was A Series Of Greetings And Farewells, One Was Always Saying Good-bye To Something, To Someone.

Here Was A Silence Between Them For A Moment, And She Wondered If All Women, When In Love, Were Torn Between Two Impulses, A Longing To Throw Modesty And Reserve To The Winds And Confess Everything, And An Equal Determination To Conceal The Love Forever, To Be Cool, Aloof, Utterly Detached, To Die Rather Than Admit A Thing So Personal, So Intimate.