"I am writing now," I said. "I need a lot of ink, and paper, and a good
Lamp. Let them keep the Blue room, Hannah, for their selfish purposes. I
shall be happy in my work. I need nothing more."
"Writing!" said Hannah. "Is it a book you're writing?"
"A Play."
"Listen to the child! A Play!"
I sat on the edge of the bed.
"Listen, Hannah," I said. "It is not what is outside of us that matters.
It is what is inside. It is what we are, not what we eat, or look like,
or wear. I have given up everything, Hannah, to my Career."
"You're young yet," said Hannah. "You used to be fond enough of the
Boys."
Hannah has been with us for years, so she gets rather talkey at times,
and has to be sat upon.
"I care nothing whatever for the Other Sex," I replied hautily.
She was opening my suitcase at the time, and I was surveying the chamber
which was to be the seen of my Literary Life, at least for some time.
"Now and then," I said to Hannah, "I shall read you parts of it. Only
you mustn't run and tell mother."
"Why not?" said she, pearing into the Suitcase.
"Because I intend to deal with Life," I said. "I shall deal with real
Things, and not the way we think them. I am young, but I have thought a
great deal. I shall minse nothing."
"Look here, Miss Barbara," Hannah said, all at once, "what are you doing
with this whiskey Flask? And these socks? And--you come right here, and
tell me where you got the things in this Suitcase." I stocked over to
the bed, and my blood frose in my vains.
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