I should have asked why any room in the house was better than home to me when she entered it, and barren as a desert when she went out again-why I always noticed and remembered the little changes in her dress that I had noticed and remembered in no other woman’s before-why I saw her, heard her, and touched her (when we shook hands at night and morning) as I had never seen, heard, and touched any other woman in my life?

I write because the security of your love allows me to develop my craft without concerning myself with trivialities – as if your love could be any more complete. But I write, in the first place,
because of you, my muse. I write for your green eyes to glance at my humble words and for the pleasure of hearing you utter them.

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