It is a truth universally acknowledged that if there be a woman of decent character and esteem, she must be in want of a good adventure. If said woman happens also to be in possession of what we respectfully term, "means," then she shall indeed have something of one. However, and more to the teeth of my meaning, if she has, as we have said, means, but has not cultivated that faculty so often in need of cultivation which is among the actions of both body and mind (being that, indeed the two words can be used separately, I shall join them with conjunctions so as to make it clear that I am referencing the "two" together, as one. If the capacity of our language could contain such a phrase widely accepted, understood, and appreciated to refer to the whole of our selves in a less fumblesome manner, I would make such use of that term beyond exhaustion. Alas, it is not within our vernacular at this time, and so we are charged to create from the fabric of our language, new blankets to cover ourselves with until the seams run shaggy) and which is, although frequently neglected as such, a responsibility of ours to nurture, that faculty whose mechanism is of opening and closing and opening wider for the purposes of taking in, and thus having, adventures, the faculty of both body and mind which we call appetite and which if left uncultivated, will limit or prohibit the having of adventures. Furthermore, if there be another woman of again more or less virtue and time enough alone to wonder upon the world and her lot, to develop and grow her craft of appetite, even without so much as train fare to her name, she would have a meal such that it would be an adventure far more worthy of being had than our first lady's attempt at such.
That being the truth, and looking closely at her lot, a young lady I knew happily found herself to be the proprietress of both means and appetite, to say nothing of her morals. She set thus off to find for her having both adventure and meal.
It is also a truth universally acknowledged that any mother who truly fills the space of the name would raise a child well-versed in correspondence for any mother with a mother who loved her well would know that in time her daughter would find herself to be in want of adventure, and any mother with a daughter would hold her to breast and know that in time her daughter would grow, learn to walk, and speak one day like the old ladies talk. Any mother with a mind free enough to dream, so long as her husband is not the worst kind, would dream of the day she'd last see her daughter and the day she'd receive the first letter of news, ink smudged with tears wiped away whilst in writing, sent, if the mother was good and taught her girl well, but a few days after their last adieu-bidding.
We understand and accept and perhaps even revel in the knowledge, however, that most of us do have loving mothers who loved and were loved by their mothers indeed but who now in addition to loving their daughters are also occupied by loving some others. The lady whose story we follow today had a mother who loved her, which is simply to say that her mother was a lover of things other than her; her husband for instance, a father of equal, if quieter fondness, was loved rather dearly by our character's mother. Forgive me for excluding the rather numerous things held dear in the bountiful breast of this mother. Suffice it to say that with a husband to love and another daughter besides, and full-time employment in the field of her passion, this mother did her best, and better than most, to instill in this daughter a value for mail sent by post in timely fashion.
We understand and accept and certainly revel in the knowledge however, that most of us daughters, though loving our mothers, are drawn to some others as well. And even though knowing the things that we've learned about what's important to practice in earnest, the daily rituals which strengthen the character of a daughter well loved by both mother and father, like the writing of letters and sending of news, oral hygiene for instance, or removing one's shoes upon arriving home, these are the things known and forgot, and sometimes returned to, though often not.
Because even being taught by loving mothers and fathers, to report back immediately upon one's arrival, sometimes these daughters, through no malice or spite find themselves... not writing... night after night. And all this to say, that no matter what, be it loving mother, or father, one or the other, two of either, or the both, a daughter with an appetite will listen to none. This indeed we learn as we go, forget it once more, and learn it again, for I'm sure that this mother who loved and was loved, also listened to neither her family nor friends. She sought her adventure and found again the importance of calling and writing them in the end. And now that she knows that she did all she could, she wouldn't dare blame her if she do as she did. We, all of us daughters and mothers and fathers, though I can't speak for sons, know that if we've cultivated that faculty which impels us to seek, we'll do what we'll do as our appetites beseech.
That being the truth, and looking closely at her lot, a young lady I knew happily found herself to be the proprietress of both means and appetite, to say nothing of her morals. She set thus off to find for her having both adventure and meal.
It is also a truth universally acknowledged that any mother who truly fills the space of the name would raise a child well-versed in correspondence for any mother with a mother who loved her well would know that in time her daughter would find herself to be in want of adventure, and any mother with a daughter would hold her to breast and know that in time her daughter would grow, learn to walk, and speak one day like the old ladies talk. Any mother with a mind free enough to dream, so long as her husband is not the worst kind, would dream of the day she'd last see her daughter and the day she'd receive the first letter of news, ink smudged with tears wiped away whilst in writing, sent, if the mother was good and taught her girl well, but a few days after their last adieu-bidding.
We understand and accept and perhaps even revel in the knowledge, however, that most of us do have loving mothers who loved and were loved by their mothers indeed but who now in addition to loving their daughters are also occupied by loving some others. The lady whose story we follow today had a mother who loved her, which is simply to say that her mother was a lover of things other than her; her husband for instance, a father of equal, if quieter fondness, was loved rather dearly by our character's mother. Forgive me for excluding the rather numerous things held dear in the bountiful breast of this mother. Suffice it to say that with a husband to love and another daughter besides, and full-time employment in the field of her passion, this mother did her best, and better than most, to instill in this daughter a value for mail sent by post in timely fashion.
We understand and accept and certainly revel in the knowledge however, that most of us daughters, though loving our mothers, are drawn to some others as well. And even though knowing the things that we've learned about what's important to practice in earnest, the daily rituals which strengthen the character of a daughter well loved by both mother and father, like the writing of letters and sending of news, oral hygiene for instance, or removing one's shoes upon arriving home, these are the things known and forgot, and sometimes returned to, though often not.
Because even being taught by loving mothers and fathers, to report back immediately upon one's arrival, sometimes these daughters, through no malice or spite find themselves... not writing... night after night. And all this to say, that no matter what, be it loving mother, or father, one or the other, two of either, or the both, a daughter with an appetite will listen to none. This indeed we learn as we go, forget it once more, and learn it again, for I'm sure that this mother who loved and was loved, also listened to neither her family nor friends. She sought her adventure and found again the importance of calling and writing them in the end. And now that she knows that she did all she could, she wouldn't dare blame her if she do as she did. We, all of us daughters and mothers and fathers, though I can't speak for sons, know that if we've cultivated that faculty which impels us to seek, we'll do what we'll do as our appetites beseech.
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