Sometimes he comes in and finds me like that, and scolds me for letting the fire out and not putting the light on. “You’re always mooning about,” he says, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing.” Oh, darling, if he only did know, how angry he would be and how wicked he would think me in his ugly little mind!
Dear one, you won’t leave me all alone again, will you? We said we would try to forget one another, but I think you knew as well as I did how impossible it was. Well, we have tried, haven’t we, and we’ve found it is no good. You thought it would be better for me, but it isn’t. I feel far, far more miserable than I did, even in the days when we were seeing each other and trying to keep down all the things we were thinking and feeling together. I would rather suffer the awful pain of seeing and wanting you, than feel so dead and empty, as if my heart had been all drained out of me, beloved. And I know now that it is just as bad for you, because you can’t do your work without me, and your work ought to come first, darling, even if you have to mix your paints with my heart’s blood.
Darling, if you think it’s better we shouldn’t