As it is, I am utterly solitary, sustained neither from above nor below, except within myself, and that is all fire and smoke, like their new engines .-- I kiss this miserable sheet of paper.

Yes, I judge that I have run off a line--and what a line! which hardly shows a trace for breathing things to follow until they feel the transgression in wreck.

How immensely nature seems to prefer men to women!--But this paper is happier than the writer.
'Your TONY.' That was the end.

Emma kissed it in tears.

They had often talked of the possibility of a classic friendship between women, the alliance of a mutual devotedness men choose to doubt of.