"
She missed him, always.
The very vigor of her general attitude, the continued strength with
which she met the days and carried them, made it all the more needful
for her to have some one with whom she could forget every care, every
purpose, every effort; some one who would put strong arms around her and
call her "Little Girl." His letters were both a comfort and a pain. He
was loyal, kind, loving, but always that wall of disapproval. He loved
her, he did not love her work.
She read them over and over, hunting anew for the tender phrases, the
things which seemed most to feed and comfort her. She suffered not only
from her loneliness, but from his; and most keenly from his sternly
suppressed longing for freedom and the work that belonged to him.
"Why can't he see," she would say to herself, "that if this succeeds, he
can do his work; that I can make it possible for him? And he won't let
me. He won't take it from me. Why are men so proud? Is there anything
so ignominious about a woman that it is disgraceful to let one help you?
And why can't he think at all about the others? It's not just us, it's
all people. If this works, men will have easier times, as well as
women. Everybody can do their real work better with this old primitive
business once set right."
And then it was always time to get up, or time to go to bed, or time to
attend to some of the numberless details of her affairs.
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