Page:Confessions of a wife (IA confessionsofwif00adamiala).pdf/81

 "At least, I have got so far as this: I don't know but I am beginning to spell Love with a capital L. For it is the dreadful truth, Dana Herwin, that I miss you—I really do. I should not have thought that I would at all; I mean, not like this—not to be uncomfortable, you know, and to come so near being unhappy that you cease to be happy. I think—do you want to know what I think? And I feel—but you are not to know what I feel. In the morning, when I wake, I turn and look at the sea, between Mrs. Gray's pretty curtains (they are white and sheer, with green seaweed over them), and I say: 'All that ocean and land are between us: sixteen hours of it by boat, and over ten by train.' In the evening, when the rest are canoeing, or chatting on piazzas, I like to get by myself. I make all sorts of excuses to be alone—which is not natural to me, I'd have you understand, for, though I am a Wilderness Girl, I am a clannish girl; I like my tribe, and I don't mope. And, when I am alone, there is the most humiliating monotony in my thoughts. First it is your hair—I see the way it curls; I look at all the straight-haired men I meet, and wonder what kinds of women love them. Then your eyes—I see your eyes flashing and darkening, like that revolving light I spoke of, and missing a revolution, and dark-