Before I came to your home, one night last October, I had unconsciously
settled into a way of living which as a rule seemed to me all-sufficient.
My friends, my clubs, my books--yes, I care for my books more than you
have ever discovered--my plans for travel, made up a life which satisfied
me--a part of the time. Deep down somewhere was a sense of unrest, a
knowledge that I was neither getting nor giving all that I was meant
to. But this I was accustomed to stifle--except at unhappy hours when
stifling would not work, and then I was frankly miserable. Mostly,
however, my time was so filled with diversion of one sort or another
that I managed to keep such hours from over-whelming me; I worried
through them somehow and forgot them as soon as I could.
From the first day that I came through your door my point of view was
gradually and strangely altered. I saw for the first time in my life what
a home might be. It attracted me; more, it showed me how empty my own
life was, that I had thought so full. The sight of your mother, of your
brothers, of your sisters, of your brother's little children--each of
these had its effect on me.
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