"
"Monsieur," said I, "regards the sunshine as an impertinent
intrusion into a soul that loves the twilight."
If I had made the same remark to an Englishwoman, she would have
pitied me for a poor, half-witted gentleman. But Antoinette has
her nation's instinctive appreciation of soul-states, and her
sympathy was none the less comprehending when she shook her head
mournfully and said that it was bad for the stomach.
"My good Antoinette," I remarked, harking back in my mind to a
speculation of other days, "if you go on worrying me in this
manner about my stomach, I will build a tower forty feet high in
the back garden, and live on top, and have my meals sent up by a
lift, and never come down again."
"Monsieur might as well be in Paradise," said Antoinette.
"Ah," said I. And I thought of the bottle of prussic acid with
mingled sentiments.
All through these many months I had Judith dwelling, a pale
ghost, in the back of my mind. We had parted so finally that
correspondence between us had seemed impertinent.
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