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 wanted to be loved. They never kissed me when I had flowers in my hair and red cheeks from dancing, when I looked pretty and most like a child, but every morning, after morning prayers, and every evening before going to bed. They never kissed me on Sunday. When I had diphtheria—you remember how sick I was—and the danger was past, they did not cry over me and be fatherly and motherly, but called up the servants and read a lot of stiff prayers, and then they kissed me solemnly, and said they were glad their little girl had not been taken. And Dorothy, little Dorothy—what do you think she said? She said it was a great relief to her that I had not died then, for, in her judgment, I was not fit to die.

"I was never the kind that is 'fit to die,' Judge Tyler. I was only fit to live, to be gay, to laugh, to dance, to sing, to play, to make people laugh, and later to make some man happy. For I was a good girl, even if I was only fit to live. If I could only make you understand how terrible home was to me. I—"