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 beat of rain; these things she had always seen, but now she was identified with them. One thing was certain. She could write no more stories or poems such as she had previously written for 'Hearth and Home.' She stood humbly before life and could not desecrate it because as never before she understood and wistfully worshipped it. AthoughAlthough [sic] she felt an equal contempt for the large canvases that she had accomplished under Mrs. Dummers's flattering eye, she still took pleasure in her portfolio of small things. Under Captain Poggy's inspiration she began to absorb with enthusiasm the art of the Japanese, and admired the skill with which they could carve a rabbit out of fat jade seemingly by a turn of the wrist. She saw how their fishes really swim, and how their improbable coarse ponies are alive while the great Copley shows us General Washington upborne on the back of a dead quadruped.

She still enjoyed her fashion plates because she liked clothes, and they were but diagrams, not art, not life. Believing firmly that love may come but once, and that Anthony was gone forever, she reconciled herself to the thought that her love life was ended. Of all the many regrets she might have had, she really felt but one. She sighed that love for her could not have been diluted a little with the commonplaces of affection. And why had she so bitterly resented Captain Jones? She could remember moments when she had hated him. It was like trying to warm one's self before a bonfire; either you were too hot or too cold. Of course now she would never marry, never. Not even if Lydia's rich young uncle,