It was partly the price of her crown. A
few letters from old friends were formally answered. Sanchia had never
been a free writer; nobody but Senhouse had found her letters eloquent--he
only had been able to feel the throb beneath the stiff lines. Her
handwriting, round and firm, had for him a provocative quality; it stung
his imagination. He used to sing her "divine frugality of utterance," and
protest that it was all of a piece with the rest of her life. No one, he
had told her once, but a sculptor could embody her in Art--her chill
perfection, her severity and definite outline. A poet might not dare, for
he would have to be greater than love itself, greater than the love which
inspired him, able to put it down below him, and stand remote from it, and
regard it as a speck in the landscape.
Your sober thought, and your pride
To nurse the passion you hold and hide
he had written of her in his day. That austere concealment of her heart,
which so impassioned him, chilled enthusiasm in all others of her
acquaintance. So her letters were few, and now she was thankful enough.
She herself wrote to nobody, and never spoke of her future unless she was
compelled to answer questions.
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