Excerpt from The Road of Living Men: A Novel
It occurs to me, Thomas Ryerson, that I have a story to tell, and that I can tell it after a fashion. It is my story of the world and the woman.
At Oporto, a little watering-place in northern Spain, I first met Mary Romany. I can shut my eyes, when all is still, and drift back. My father and I were world-wanderers. He never found sunlight, after the darkness of my mother's death, but traveled and traveled. Very quiet in his sorrow he was, and very dear to me. There was but one romance in his life, as in mine; it was his life's largest affair, as is mine.
I was sixteen, and Mary Romany two or three years younger, but films from lost ages stirred within me, at the turn of the maid's hand. As men, we seem to have come a very long way to this latest life. Sometimes I believe that we come with loves and hates unfinished; that certain contacts take up the old stories again; that sudden gusts of love are far deeper matters than men make of them. I seemed to have known the arch of Mary Romany's brow, the arc of her eyelash, the imprint of her finger - before Atlantis was lost. The slender flying figure animated a vague but passionate spirit of quest.
There was a touch of wildness about her that awed me and often made me speechless.
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