Then there was Mr. Wake, and I felt certain that he had a long story tangled in the years that he had passed.
Leslie came next; Leslie who had cared enough for this Ben Forbes man to come to Florence in order to show him that she was not what he had said she was.
And Viola, who for some reason was making a pretense of studying when she really hated work.
Beata followed, Beata whose tie-knitting had ceased, and who cried as she did her dusting or scraped the carrots.
And I had added, just that evening, another one, and that was Sam Deane, who was hungry, and who was fighting, and who needed help.
All of them had stories and all of the stories seemed most interesting, to me. I, I realized, hadn’t any story, but I didn’t really need it, while there was so much activity and romance for every one around me.
Before I undressed, I wrote Mr. Wake a long letter about Sam Deane, and I said that I was sorry to trouble him, but that I did want his help, and that Sam Deane lived on the third floor of the building that backed ours, which would be good for reducing Mr. Wake’s stomach. And then I signed myself most affectionately and admiringly his, and closed and addressed and stamped my letter.
Then I got Beata to take it out. I found her sitting before the wall shrine and looking at it dully.
“It must go quickly—” I said. And she said something of sweethearts and love, which was, of course, all off, but I hadn’t the time nor ability to explain and so I let it go; and then I went back to my room and undressed and went to bed.