"I am as a
man bewitched. If I don't marry her I shall waste away with
longing." "Then marry her in God's name!" says Pantagruel. And
I am no wiser by his counsel, and I have paraded the complication
of my folly before mocking eyes.
October 23d.
I perceive that the young man of the idiot metaphor was gifted
with piercing acumen. Beneath the Jaquesian melancholy of my
temperament he diagnosed the potentiality of canine rabidness.
No rational being is afflicted with this grotesque concentration
of idea, this fierce hot fury waxing in intensity day by day.
I must consult a brain specialist.
October 25th.
I went to Judith this afternoon, more to prove the loyalty of my
friendship than to seek comfort from her society. Over tea we
discussed the weather and books and her statistical work. It was
dull, but unembarrassing. The grey twilight crept into the room
and there was a pause in our talk. She broke it by asking,
without looking at me:
"When are we to have an evening together again?"
"Whenever you like, my dear Judith.
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