I can see a beautiful woman courtesying to a Queen and all
the world reading it in the morning paper; and a big town house with
myriad lights blinking through the fog outside, where shivering wretches
watch the carriages drive up to my door. For twenty--no thirty years--I
might be the one inimitable and wholly adorable being, clothed with rare
garments, blazing with jewels, confidant of statesmen, maker of the men
who make history. History! I should _be_ history!
I could do it all myself--I have never had a chance, never yet the glimmer
of a chance, but I could do anything, conquer anything, achieve anything!
It is so little that I ask--the money to live upon, and a chance, only the
chance--it is maddening to be denied that!--and fair play to live my life
and carry out my destiny.
There was a time when I wanted less, expected less; like Cadge with queer,
devoted Pros. or Kitty Reid, her hair blowing about her face, happy with
her daubs, messing about in the studio. Was I happier when I was like
that? I would not go back to it! I would not barter my beauty for any
other gift on earth. I shall fight and fight to the last ditch.
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