Волны

           ItwasSusanwhofirstbecamewhollywoman,purelyfeminine.Itwasshewhodroppedonmyfacethosescaldingtearswhichareterrible,beautiful;both,neither.Shewasborntobetheadoredofpoets,sincepoetsrequiresafety;someonewhositssewing,whosays,"Ihate,Ilove,"whoisneithercomfortablenorprosperous,buthassomequalityinaccordancewiththehighbutunemphaticbeautyofpurestylewhichthosewhocreatepoetrysoparticularlyadmire.Herfathertrailedfromroomtoroomanddownflaggedcorridorsinhisflappingdressing-gownandwornslippers.Onstillnightsawallofwaterfellwitharoaramileoff.Theancientdogcouldscarcelyheavehimselfupontohischair.Andsomewitlessservantcouldbeheardlaughingatthetopofthehouseasshewhirredthewheelofthesewing-machineroundandround.

           ’ThatIobservedeveninthemidstofmyanguishwhen,twistingherpocket-handkerchief,Susancried,"Ilove;Ihate.""Aworthlessservant,"Iobserved,"laughsupstairsintheattic,"andthatlittlepieceofdramatizationshowshowincompletelywearemergedinourownexperiences.Ontheoutskirtsofeveryagonysitssomeobservantfellowwhopoints;whowhispersashewhisperedtomethatsummermorninginthehousewherethecorncomesuptothewindow,"Thewillowgrowsontheturfbytheriver.Thegardenerssweepwithgreatbroomsandtheladysitswriting.