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 I was desperate; positive I must see her at once. She replied verbally: "Much important business to transact; please excuse," etc.

I gave it up. Why trouble her? She did not care and could not understand. Selfish, cold-hearted, God! how cruel this beautiful woman could be. She was one of those imperfect creatures who never love, their whole nature dominated by Self, fitfully passionate, as unreliable as life—yet was she my own creation, mine!

I found myself pitying the Vespa Prince; after all he was only a man like myself, and I suffered; yes, I suffered.

I sauntered aimlessly through the gardens, then wandered around the city, loitering in the streets and parks watching children at play, and finally sought rest in the Salon, burdened with art treasures. I looked again upon the tranquil beauty of Abella, wife of the gifted fisherman. The face was so calm, placid, vacant, one wondered why humanity worried over trivial nothings. Life is brief, and we cram so much unhappiness into it. Why strive for what we can never accomplish? Why strive at all? Be content, accept destiny, no effort can alter it; crawl and crawl as does the worm: we are but another species.

Life is a mysterious, enchanting dream, the awakening—dissolution. There are very few souls among the millions inhabiting this sphere that have mastered the knowledge of living, the majority merely exist. Every man, woman and child should be drilled through the intricacies of nature, make