I know that,
with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be
his wife. He is already part of you. Though you fly to Greece,
and never see him again, or forget his very name, George will
work in your thoughts till you die. It isn't possible to love and
to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love,
ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I
know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal."
Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her anger passed away
soon, her tears remained.
"I only wish poets would say this, too: love is of the body; not
the body, but of the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if
we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the
soul! Your soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, because of all
the cant with which superstition has wrapped it round. But we
have souls. I cannot say how they came nor whither they go, but
we have them, and I see you ruining yours. I cannot bear it. It
is again the darkness creeping in; it is hell.
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