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"Twice I have been in love--I will not dwell on that--but
once, as I went to someone who, I know, doubted whether I dared to
come, I took a short cut at a venture through an unfrequented road
near Earl's Court, and so happened on a white wall and a familiar
green door. 'Odd!' said I to myself, 'but I thought this place was
on Campden Hill. It's the place I never could find somehow--like
counting Stonehenge--the place of that queer day dream of mine.'
And I went by it intent upon my purpose. It had no appeal to me
that afternoon.
"
I had just a moment's impulse to try the door, three steps
aside were needed at the most--though I was sure enough in my heart
that it would open to me--and then I thought that doing so might
delay me on the way to that appointment in which I thought my
honour was involved. Afterwards I was sorry for my punctuality--I
might at least have peeped in I thought, and waved a hand to those
panthers, but I knew enough by this time not to seek again
belatedly that which is not found by seeking. Yes, that time made
me very sorry . . . . .
"
Years of hard work after that and never a sight of the door.
It's only recently it has come back to me. With it there has come
a sense as though some thin tarnish had spread itself over my world.
I began to think of it as a sorrowful and bitter thing that I should
never see that door again. Perhaps I was suffering a little from
overwork--perhaps it was what I've heard spoken of as the feeling
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