Then I would ask myself why I wished her to come. Her presence
in the neighborhood would be of no good to me unless I saw her, and of
course I could not see her. And if this could be so, what would be worse
for me, or for her, than our seeing each other? From these abstract
questions I came to a more practical one: What should I do? To go away
seemed to be a sensible thing, but I was tired of going away. I liked my
home, and, besides, Sylvia would be in the neighborhood. It also seemed
wise to stay, and endeavor to forget her. But how could I forget her, if
she were in the neighborhood? If she were to go away, I might be willing
to go away also; but the chances were that I should not know where she
had gone, and how could I endure to go to any place where I was certain
she was not?
During this mental tangle I confided in no one. There was no one who
could sympathize with my varying view of the subject, and I knew there
was no one with whose view of the subject I could agree. Sometimes it
was almost impossible for me to sympathize with myself.
It suited my mood to take long walks in the surrounding country. One
morning, returning from one of these, when about half a mile out of the
village, I saw in the road, not very far from me, a carriage, which
seemed to be in distress.
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