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for you. I had hoped that your fantasies would lead you out of doors; you never<br />
came, but I always cleared a seat for you under the trees. I have written that I admired<br />
you for your library adventures, but know that I also resented you for never<br />
smiling or even uttering a sound to me and our family. Indeed, I thought that you<br />
were like Grandmama, silent and toothless, until one day I heard a grunt from the<br />
library and peered around the door to see you biting your lip, worrying yourself over<br />
a musty old idea.<br />
I am sure you thought I was just as ridiculous, running around like<br />
a wild animal with my pockets full of moss and more twigs than hair in that tangled<br />
heap atop my head. I know Grandmama would still not approve of me now, were<br />
she alive, but she did teach me to walk without scuffing my shoes and to sit and<br />
make conversation when company calls. I was not compliant in the least, talking<br />
only of squirrels while she insisted that politely mentioning the weather did not<br />
include discussing its effects on all creatures, great and small. I am sure your serious<br />
mouth could not resist a smile as you listened from the library.<br />
Yes, I have grown up by degrees, Egaeus, but you were always grown.<br />
I see your true nature now, but when we were children, I thought you both aged and<br />
pitiful. Yes, it was pity that drew me toward you in friendship and pity again that led<br />
me to accept your proposal of marriage. Your words seemed so sure as they turned<br />
themselves around in your small, white mouth that I felt some hope. Hope for love<br />
No, but you seemed to propose that<br />
our motherless hearts could find a home in each other. Surely you knew that I did<br />
not love you with any more passion than that of a cousin and friend.<br />
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