Dead Men Tell No Tales, Mary.

You Had To Endure Something Yourself Before It Touched You.

I Thought Of All Those Heroines Of Fiction Who Looked Pretty When They Cried, And What A Contrast I Must Make With A Blotched And Swollen Face, And Red Rims To My Eyes.

When The Leaves Rustle, They Sound Very Much Like The Stealthy Movement Of A Woman In Evening Dress, And When They Shiver Suddenly, And Fall, And Scatter Away Along The Ground, They Might Be The Patter Of A Woman’s Hurrying Footsteps, And The Mark In The Gravel The Imprint Of A High-heeled Shoe.

This House Sheltered Us, We Spoke, We Loved Within Those Walls. That Was Yesterday. To-day We Pass On, We See It No More, And We Are Different, Changed In Some Infinitesimal Way. We Can Never Be Quite The Same Again.

I Wondered Why It Was That Places Are So Much Lovelier When One Is Alone.