``You talk like an
old woman. And I never think of you as older than
myself.''
``I AM an old woman,'' said Cyrilla. And, with a
tightening at the heart Mildred saw, deep in the depths
of her eyes, the look of old age. ``I've found that I'm
too old for love--for man-and-woman love--and that
means I'm an old woman.''
Mildred felt that there was only a thin barrier of
reserve between her and some sad secret of this strange,
shy, loving woman's--a barrier so thin that she could
almost hear the stifled moan of a broken heart. But
the barrier remained; it would have been impossible for
Cyrilla Brindley to talk frankly about herself.
When Mildred came out of her room the next morning,
Cyrilla had gone, leaving a note:
I can't bear good-bys. Besides, we'll see each other very
soon. Forgive me for shrinking, but really I can't.
Before night Mildred was settled in the new place and
the new room, with no sense of strangeness. She was
reproaching herself for hardness, for not caring about
Cyrilla, the best and truest friend she had ever had.
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