Day by day we trace its current, we cannot say
growth because it sprang into life full-grown. Although Julie said that
"her life was not worth a tear," she caused torrents of tears to flow.
From the first, their love seemed centuries old, so entirely was it a
part of their being. Day after day their souls were revealed to each
other, their hearts became more united. Every pure chord of psychic
affection was struck, even almost to the distracting discord of suicide
together, that they might never part, and from which they were saved as
by a miracle. In such unsullied love, there is an element of worship.
It is the sublimation of passion, freed from sensuous dross, a
spiritual efflorescence, a white flame of the soul.
The parting of the lover, the pursuit, their meeting again in Julie's
home in Paris, the flickering candle of her waning life, burning down
to its socket, the touching interchange of letters, the gathering
shadows of the end, all these have stirred the hearts of entire
Christendom, appealing to all ages and conditions.
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