left my side, ungratified and disappointed, as he ever had been—then, with a burst of heart-rending tears, I threw myself down upon the floor near the door which had just closed on him, and listened to the sound of his footsteps, and murmured imploringly:
"Oh, come—come—come back! I am yours!"
But had he come back—I knew it well—I should have resisted then, as always.
And perhaps it is true to say that such a thirst as mine was cannot possibly be quenched by any delight on earth!
All is once more as it was of old. I am much in love, happy (to some extent), and slightly sarcastic about things in general. Witold comes daily; he is good and tender to me beyond words.
Sometimes our conversation flags. Then we read together—novels and poems only; for Witold, scientific literature is non-existent. A volume of Owinski's poems, just published, has given us many a pleasant hour.
She is right, Idalia: I had taken all things—and that also—too much in earnest. At
