There seems to be nothing left for me but to
watch my father to the end. The world would say that such
a duty in life is fit for a widowed childless daughter;
but to you I cannot pretend to say that my bereavements or
misfortunes reconcile me to such a fate. I cannot cease to
remember my age, my ambition, and I will say, my love. I
suppose that everything is over for me,--as though I were
an old woman, going down into the grave, but at my time
of life I find it hard to believe that it must be so.
And then the time of waiting may be so long! I suppose I
could start a house in London, and get people around me
by feeding and flattering them, and by little intrigues,
--like that woman of whom you are so fond. It is money
that is chiefly needed for that work, and of money I have
enough now. And people would know at any rate who I am.
But I could not flatter them, and I should wish the food
to choke them if they did not please me. And you would
not come, and if you did,--I may as well say it boldly,
--others would not.
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