"She reads more than I do.
Why, she reads newspapers and magazines--everything she can
lay her hands on! Father calls her Professor."
She also told me that her mother had read a good deal of poetry,
that she knew the "Ancient Mariner" and "The Raven" by heart
"She's always at me because I don't care for poetry as much as she
does," she laughed.
"Well, you're not taller than your mother in this respect, are you?"
"N-no," she assented, with an appreciative giggle
She left the car on the corner of One Hundred and Second Street. I
was in a queer state of excitement
It flashed upon my mind that the section of Central Park in the
vicinity of One Hundred and Second Street teemed with women
and baby-carriages, and that it was but natural to suppose that
Dora would be out every day wheeling her baby in that locality,
and reading a book, perhaps. I visioned myself meeting her there
some afternoon and telling her of my undying love. I even worked
out the details of the plan, but I felt that I should never carry it out
I still loved Dora, but that was the Dora of six years before, an
image of an enshrined past.
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