Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 05, March, 1858 - Various - Страница 17

  Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but it is so.

  She doesn't like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me.

  Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways?

  Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly?

  'Tis not her fault, 'tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them:

  'Tis not her fault, 'tis her beautiful nature, not even to know me.

  Hopeless it seems,—yet I cannot, hopeless, determine to leave it:

  She goes,—therefore I go; she moves,—I move, not to lose her.