And in Conclusion
I wonder, then, if I was ever truly lonely in France. I used to imagine that I was. I used to busy myself with Louis and households. The theater. Letters to those that entertained me. And through it I imagined it to be a distraction to the loneliness that pulsed just underneath. It was a strange composition, one in an unsteady time I could never quite match my steps to. Now I understand why.
It was never truly lonely.
It was never truly lonely.