(no subject)
I do believe my sentiments toward this dear old place - ah, see how I permit myself to refer to the mansion! - have changed entirely. All of its former mysteries seem forgotten, or of no consequence. The laughter in the attic, the disappearance of the young vicomte, it all seems part of a vague memory that has naught to do with me. Lucy and I go on as ever we have, quite untouched. Of course, I relate all the news to her, and have told her of our excellent Mr. Holmes (regarding whom enough good cannot be said), his curious Mrs. Hudson (regarding whom nothing can be said at all), the newly arrived Lord Henry (who speaks in the most delightful paradoxes), and the lately ill Mr. Heathcliff (for whom I cannot help but feel compassion, as he wears tragedy like a cloak). Then, too, there is dear Liza, with her charming candour, and dear Christine, who, along with the Count, shared in the most socially disastrous moment that I cannot bring myself to repent for.
Ah, it is consistent. I have traced the cause already. It has been since my conversation with the Count, since I took a turn with him in the woods that evening, that my sentiments and viewpoint altered. It is not that I now shirk decorum; rather, I see it more clearly than ever I have.
Still. That is the one conversation I have not yet related to Lucy.
Ah, it is consistent. I have traced the cause already. It has been since my conversation with the Count, since I took a turn with him in the woods that evening, that my sentiments and viewpoint altered. It is not that I now shirk decorum; rather, I see it more clearly than ever I have.
Still. That is the one conversation I have not yet related to Lucy.