I HAVE said that I am alone.
I am not quite, quite alone.
I have one friend—of that Friendship that is real and is inlaid with the beautiful thing Truth. And because it has the beautiful thing Truth in it, this my one Friendship is somehow above and beyond me; there is something in it that I reach after in vain—for I have not that divinely beautiful thing Truth. Have I not said that I am a thief and a liar? But in this Friendship nevertheless there is a rare, ineffably sweet something that is mine. It is the one tender thing in this dull dreariness that wraps me round.
Are there many things in this cool-hearted world so utterly exquisite as the pure love of one woman for another woman?
My one friend is a woman some twelve or thirteen years older than I.
