I am inclined to think you take an interest in
your clothes. I would not be sure, even, that you do not mingle a
little of "your own hair" (you know what I mean) with the hair of
your head. There is in your temperament a vein of vanity, a
suggestion of selfishness, a spice of laziness. I have known you a
trifle unreasonable, a little inconsiderate, slightly exacting.
Unlike the heroine of fiction, you have a certain number of human
appetites and instincts; a few human follies, perhaps, a human
fault, or shall we say two? In short, dear Ladies, you also, even
as we men, are the children of Adam and Eve. Tell me, if you know,
where I may meet with this supernatural sister of yours, this woman
that one reads about. She never keeps any one waiting while she
does her back hair, she is never indignant with everybody else in
the house because she cannot find her own boots, she never scolds
the servants, she is never cross with the children, she never slams
the door, she is never jealous of her younger sister, she never
lingers at the gate with any cousin but the right one.
Dear me, where DO they keep them, these women that one reads about?
I suppose where they keep the pretty girl of Art.
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