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Chapter 35

           Formyrenownasa‘beauty’combinedwithmyprideandexclusiveness,wouldhavegivenherpartiesaprestigegreaterthanevenRoyaltycouldbestowsheknewthatandIknewthatandknowingit,nevercondescendedtosomuchasnoticeherbyabow.ButthoughItookacertainsatisfactioninthusrevengingmyselfontheatrociousvulgarityofparvenusandsocialinterlopers,Igrewintenselywearyofthemonotonyandemptinessofwhatfashionablefolkscall‘amusement,’andpresentlyfallingillofanervousfever,Iwassentdowntotheseasideforafewweeks’changeofairwithayoungcousinofmine,agirlIratherlikedbecauseshewassodifferenttomyself.HernamewasEvaMaitlandshewasbutsixteenandextremelydelicatepoorlittlesoul!shediedtwomonthsbeforemymarriage.SheandI,andamaidtoattendus,wentdowntoCromerandoneday,sittingonthecliffstogether,sheaskedmetimidlyifIknewanauthornamedMavisClare?Itoldhernowhereuponshehandedmeabookcalled‘TheWingsofPsyche.’

           "Doreadit!"shesaidearnestly—"Itwillmakeyoufeelsohappy!"

           Ilaughed.Theideaofamodernauthorwritinganythingtomakeonefeelhappy,seemedtomequiteludicrous,theaimofmostofthembeingtoawakenadisgustoflife,andahatredofone’sfellow-creatures.However,topleaseEva,Ireadthe‘WingsofPsyche,’—andifitdidnotmakemeactuallyhappy,itmovedmetoagreatwonderanddeepreverenceforthewoman-writerofsuchabook.

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