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Man and Maid By: Elinor Glyn (1864-1943) |
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[Illustration: Suzette (Renee Adoree) makes the tedious hours of the
wounded Sir Nicholas Thormonde (Lew Cody) seem less monotonous. (A scene
from Elinor Glyn's production "Man and Maid" for Metro Goldwyn Mayer)] MAN AND MAID By ELINOR GLYN A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York Published by arrangement with J. B. Lippincott Company
Printed in U.S.A. COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY ELINOR GLYN
MAN AND MAID I
February, 1918. I am sick of my life The war has robbed it of all that a young man can
find of joy. I look at my mutilated face before I replace the black patch over the
left eye, and I realize that, with my crooked shoulder, and the leg gone
from the right knee downwards, that no woman can feel emotion for me
again in this world. So be it I must be a philosopher. Mercifully I have no near relations Mercifully I am still very rich,
mercifully I can buy love when I require it, which under the
circumstances, is not often. Why do people write journals? Because human nature is filled with
egotism. There is nothing so interesting to oneself as oneself; and
journals cannot yawn in one's face, no matter how lengthy the expression
of one's feelings may be! A clean white page is a sympathetic thing, waiting there to receive
one's impressions! Suzette supped with me, here in my appartement last night When she
had gone I felt a beast. I had found her attractive on Wednesday, and
after an excellent lunch, and two Benedictines, I was able to persuade
myself that her tenderness and passion were real, and not the result of
some thousands of francs, And then when she left I saw my face in the
glass without the patch over the socket, and a profound depression fell
upon me. Is it because I am such a mixture that I am this rotten creature? An
American grandmother, a French mother, and an English father.
Paris Eton Cannes Continuous traveling. Some years of living and
enjoying a rich orphan's life. The war fighting a zest hitherto
undreamed of unconsciousness agony and then? well now Paris again
for special treatment. Why do I write this down? For posterity to take up the threads
correctly? Why? From some architectural sense in me which must make a beginning, even of
a journal, for my eyes alone, start upon a solid basis? I know not and care not. Three charming creatures are coming to have tea with me to day. They had
heard of my loneliness and my savageness from Maurice They burn to give
me their sympathy and have tea with plenty of sugar in it and
chocolate cake. I used to wonder in my salad days what the brains of women were made
of when they have brains! The cleverest of them are generally devoid
of a logical sense, and they seldom understand the relative value of
things, but they make the charm of life, for one reason or another. When I have seen these three I will dissect them. A divorcée a war
widow of two years and the third with a husband fighting. All, Maurice assures me, ready for anything, and highly attractive. It
will do me a great deal of good, he protests... Continue reading book >>
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Literature |
Romance |
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