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It was the remark that the first bore made to Adam.
"Tell me about yourself." And she gave the answer that Adam must have
"There's nothing to tell."
But eventually Adam probably told the bore all the things he thought
about at night when the locusts sang in the sandy grass, and he must
have remarked patronizingly how _different_ he was from Eve, forgetting
how different she was from him... at any rate, Clara told Amory much
about herself that evening. She had had a harried life from sixteen on,
and her education had stopped sharply with her leisure. Browsing in her
library, Amory found a tattered gray book out of which fell a yellow
sheet that he impudently opened. It was a poem that she had written
at school about a gray convent wall on a gray day, and a girl with
her cloak blown by the wind sitting atop of it and thinking about the
many-colored world. As a rule such sentiment bored him, but this was
done with so much simplicity and atmosphere, that it brought a picture
of Clara to his mind, of Clara on such a cool, gray day with her keen
blue eyes staring out, trying to see her tragedies come marching over
the gardens outside. He envied that poem. How he would have loved to
have come along and seen her on the wall and talked nonsense or romance
to her, perched above him in the air. He began to be frightfully jealous
of everything about Clara: of her past, of her babies, of the men and
women who flocked to drink deep of her cool kindness and rest their
tired minds as at an absorbing play.
"_Nobody_ seems to bore you," he objected.
"About half the world do," she admitted, "but I think that's a pretty
good average, don't you?" and she turned to find something in Browning
that bore on the subject. She was the only person he ever met who
could look up passages and quotations to show him in the middle of
the conversation, and yet not be irritating to distraction. She did it
constantly, with such a serious enthusiasm that he grew fond of watching
her golden hair bent over a book, brow wrinkled ever so little at
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