Chapter 70

           IthoughtinthesamewayofLily.OnedayInearlycrashed,breakinghardattheglimpseofagirlwithlongblondehairwalkingdownasidestreet.Iswervedthecarintothecurbandracedafterher.EvenbeforeIsawtheplainfaceIknewitwasnotLily.ButifIhadrushedafterthegirlinthesidestreetitwasbecauseIwantedtofaceLily,toquestionher,totrytounderstandtheununderstandable;notbecauseIlongedforher.Icouldhavelongedforcertainaspectsofher,forcertainphasesbutitwasthatveryphasalitythatmadeherimpossibletolove.SoIcouldalmostthinkofher,thelight-phaseher,asonethinkstenderlybuthistoricallyofthemomentsofpoetryinone’slife,andyetstillhateherforwhatshehaddone.ButIhadtodosomethingwhileIwaited,whileIabsorbedtheexperienceosmoticallyintomylife.SothroughoutthelatterhalfofAugustIpursuedthetrailofConchisandLilyinEngland;andthroughthem,ofAlison.Itkeptme,howevertenuouslyandvicariously,inthemasque;anditdulledmyagonizinglongingtoseeAlison.

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