She was my mother, all right. And I don't feel as if I
ever can believe in any of them. I don't want to. All I want of women
is for them to let me alone and I'll let them alone. But a few weeks
ago I had a fine idea--to invent a girl of my own! I got the idea in
English Literature class, from a poem of Wordsworth's.
"Three years she grew in sun and shower;
Then nature said, A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This child I to myself will take,
She shall be mine and I will make
A lady of my own."
"I've invented her and I'm going to keep a journal to her and I'll tell
her all the things I'd tell my mother, if she'd been decent, and to my
sweetheart, if I could believe in them. I don't know just how old she
is. Somewhere in her twenties, I guess. She's tall and slim and she
has a creamy kind of skin. Her hair is light brown, almost gold. It's
very thick. She has it in braids wound all round her head. Her eyes
are hazel and she has a sweet mouth and she is very beautiful. And she
is good, and tender, and she understands everything about me. She
knows just how bad I've been and the fight I'm putting up to keep
straight. And every night before I go to bed, I'll tell her what my
day has been.
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