CONFESSIONS OF
A WIFE
I
The night is wild and wet. It makes faces at me when I go to the window, like a big gargoyle; it has the dignity that belongs to ugliness and character. I'm afraid I was born a heathen for beauty's sake; for all the Christian there is in me—and that is scandalously little—is kept busy going into sackcloth and doing penance for my esthetic, sins. I have never loved any person who was not beautiful. But then I have never loved many people—Father, and poor Ina.
The wind starts a long way off to-night, and stirs and strengthens with a terrible deliberation. By the time it reaches you, nothing can withstand it, and you don't care whether anything can or not. I feel as if I could open the window
