And in Conclusion

[ambitious_woman]

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

Comments

[not_hawkingbird]

…There are different kinds of loneliness, I think.

[ambitious_woman]

In that I would agree.