And
you both thought that doing so much in the frightful heat would make
me ill. And I blessed the heat and the flies and everything that made
what I did for you more difficult to do. Because the doing of what was
more difficult, more trying, more fatiguing needed more love. And my
gratitude to you for your loving friendship, and for needing me more
than any one else, wanted to be tried to the uttermost. And I thought,
too, 'When I go back to Maurice I shall be worth a little more, I
shall be a little bit finer, and he'll feel it. He'll understand
exactly what it was to me to leave him so soon, to leave--to leave
what I thought of then as my Garden of Paradise. And he'll love me
more because I had the courage to leave it to try and save my friend.
He'll realize--he'll realize--' But men don't. They don't want to. Or
they can't. I'm sure--I'm positive now that men think less of women
who are ready to sacrifice themselves than of women who wish to make
slaves of them. I see that now.
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