Who Was She? [short story]
by Bayard Taylor
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Come, now, there may as well be an end of this! Every time I meet your eyes squarely, I detect the question just slipping out of them. If you had spoken it, or even boldly looked it; if you had shown in your motions the least sign of a fussy or fidgety concern on my account; if this were not the evening of my birthday, and you the only friend who remembered it; if confession were not good for the soul, though harder than sin to some people, of whom I am one-well, if all reasons were not at show more this instant converged into a focus, and burning me rather violently, in that region where the seat of emotion is supposed to lie, I should keep my trouble to myself. show lessTags
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- Canonical title
- Who Was She? [short story]
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- Originally published in the Atlantic Monthly, September 1874
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