“Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter.
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