She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Nevertheless, she could not prevent a rising excitement as the dawn of the new life drew near to her—a thrilling of the nerves, a secret and delicious exaltation above the common circumstances of existence. They don’t count, and I don’t care. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair.
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This video was uploaded to thiruvalluvan.com on 20-09-2024 20:56:36
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