But We Did Not Meet Again, For When I Looked For Her She Was Not There:
She Had Gone Out Of My Life, Like Priscilla, And Like So Many Beautiful
Things That Vanish And Return Not.
And now I return to what I said at the beginning - that there were
several reasons for including this little girl in my series of
impressions.
The most important one has been left until now. I want to
meet her again, but how shall I find her in this immensity of London -
these six millions of human souls! Let me beg of any reader who knows
Rose Mary Angela Catherine Maude Caversham - a name like that - who has
identified her from my description - that he will inform me of her
whereabouts.
XXIII
A SPRAY OF SOUTHERNWOOD
To pass from little girls to little boys is to go into quite another,
an inferior, coarser world. No doubt there are wonderful little boys,
but as a rule their wonderfulness consists in a precocious intellect:
this kind doesn't appeal to me, so that if I were to say anything on
the matter, it would be a prejudiced judgment. Even the ordinary
civilised little boy, the nice little gentleman who is as much at home
in the drawing-room as at his desk in the school-room or with a bat in
the playing-field - even that harmless little person seems somehow
unnatural, or denaturalised to my primitive taste. A result, I will
have it, of improper treatment.
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