. The book of months . -;.i.,.-v;,;,^-. NOVEMBER curious checker-board of life, ending in mycheckmate—just a piece of ingenious manoeu-vring of the pieces, all leading to nothing? Icannot believe that. Yet if it is not that, if loveis the answer to it all. ... I love to be withher, and since that afternoon in the cathedralI have thought of nothing but her. But loveher.! I know it is not that—yet. It is that bythis curious trick which Nature has played, Ifeel, I am cheated into feeling, that Margery ishere with me again. It is as if there had beenmade an image of Margery, like in every respe
. The book of months . -;.i.,.-v;,;,^-. NOVEMBER curious checker-board of life, ending in mycheckmate—just a piece of ingenious manoeu-vring of the pieces, all leading to nothing? Icannot believe that. Yet if it is not that, if loveis the answer to it all. ... I love to be withher, and since that afternoon in the cathedralI have thought of nothing but her. But loveher.! I know it is not that—yet. It is that bythis curious trick which Nature has played, Ifeel, I am cheated into feeling, that Margery ishere with me again. It is as if there had beenmade an image of Margery, like in every respect,not only in externals — in voice, appearance,gesture—but in the deeper things as well, in hergayety and her tenderness, in that quick sym-pathy which sprang into being at the momentthe call was made. Yet God never makes fac-similes; she, too, is a living soul, of herown identity and none others. Or — thewildest impossibilities riot in my brain to-night— is this some wraith of my Margery,271 jssfja ■^MA.
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