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Most Women Are Dull and Stupid

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That afternoon, in my sitting room, when she first--
And I didn't know how to. Or think about it. Because,
Of course, those thin pink lips. And yes, tender,
Warm feelings. Because those chocolate eyes,
Brown and sweet and rich with feeling. But then

She turned away, apologized, asked if I despised
Her, but how could I? Had she embarrassed me?
No. Had she missed the mark? No. Got it wrong?
No. Misread it? No. One syllable. That was all
I could manage, my mind in a crash like the road

Weeks ago, with the carriages and the little boy
And everyone panicking. I am panicking now,
I know because I can never tell her. But I can
Also never take her. But she is all I want, she has
Always been what I have ever wanted, since

What? Fourteen? That blue day with all flowers
And bees buzzing round them, and her in all black,
But somehow also sunlike in how she drew us
To her, me and Elizabeth. That afternoon she said
She'd be in a thousand miseries until the following

Day, when she saw me again, thinking she'd over-
Stepped the mark, wondering if I hated her or
Despised her. Then, I reassured her, it wasn't
Going to happen. But tonight, I think I know
The kind of sleepless night she was describing