When a creature loves much, even when it is as little and as simple a
soul as Bebee, the world and all its people and all its laws and ways are
as naught. They cease to exist; they are as though they had never been.
Whoever recollects an outside world may play with passion, or may idle
with sentiment, but does not love.
She did not hear what the villagers said to her. She did not see the
streets of the towns as she passed them. She kept herself clean always,
and broke fast now and then by sheer instinct of habit, nothing more. She
had no perception what she did, except of walking--walking--walking
always, and seeing the white road go by like pale ribbons unrolled.
She got a dreamy, intense, sleepless light in her blue eyes that
frightened some of those she passed. They thought she had been
fever-stricken, and was not in her senses.
So she went across the dreary lowlands, wearing out her little sabots,
but not wearing out her patience and her courage.
She was very dusty and jaded. Her woollen skirt was stained with weather
and torn with briers. But she had managed always to wash her cap white in
brook water, and she had managed always to keep her pretty bright curls
soft and silken--for he had liked them so much, and he would soon draw
them through his hand again.
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