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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
36
I
wish
we
were
not
so
easily
affected
by
each
other's
looks.
Sometimes,
during
the
course
of
a
long
correspondence
with
a
friend,
he
grows
to
be
inexpressibly
dear
to
me;
I
see
how
beautiful
his
soul
is,
how
fine
his
intellect,
how
generous
his
heart,
and
how
he
already
possesses
in
great
perfection
those
qualities
of
kindness,
and
patience,
and
simplicity,
after
which
I
have
been
so
long
and
so
vainly
striving.
It
is
not
I
clothing
him
with
the
attributes
I
love
and
wandering
away
insensibly
into
that
sweet
land
of
illusions
to
which
our
footsteps
turn
whenever
they
are
left
to
themselves,
it
is
his
very
self
unconsciously
writing
itself
into
his
letters,
the
very
man
as
he
is
without
his
body.
Then
I
meet
him
again,
and
all
illusions
go.
He
is
what
I
had
always
found
him
when
we
were
together,
good
and
amiable;
but
some
trick
of
manner,
some
feature
or
attitude
that
I
do
not
quite
like,
makes
me
forget,
and
be
totally
unable
to
remember,
what
I
know
from
his
letters
to
be
true
of
him.
He,
no
doubt,
feels
the
same
thing
about
me,
and
so
between
us
there
is
a
thick
veil
of
something
fixed,
which,
dodge
as
we
may,
we
never
can
get
round.
"Well,
and
what
do
you
conclude
from
all
that?"
said
the
Man
of
Wrath,
who
had
been
going
out
by
the
verandah
door
with
his
gun
and
his
dogs
to
shoot
the
squirrels
before
they
had
eaten
up
too
many
birds,
and
of
whose
coat-sleeve
I
had
laid
hold
as
he
passed,
keeping
him
by
me
like
a
second
Wedding
Guest,
and
almost
as
restless,
while
I
gave
expression
to
the
above
sentiments.
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