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this indefatigable woman shall not disappear from the literary scene without a word of farewell, without an expression of deep gratitude. For once, at least, I will play the cavalier, unworthy though I am. I alone will be mourner, critic, and eulogist. I will sacrifice myself. I shall have no rivals, but my tribute will not be venal or ready-made.

Not one of the all too many archimandrites of that historical, anecdotal, impressionistic, pure, impure, or philosophic criticism who are to be found in the generous breadths of this our Italy will take pen in hand and dispense ink and judgment to glorify the prolific and industrious novelist recently borne off by pneumonia from the affection of her family, the curiosity of movie audiences, and the faithful admiration of the multitude. Such silence is unjust; and I, like Cato the Younger, have a liking for lost causes.