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By Josephine Daskam

Josephine stay away from Daskam, Mrs. Bacon (1876- 1961) used to be a prolific American writer. She wrote many books between that are: Smith university tales (1900), Sister's Vocation, and different ladies' tales (1900), Fables for the reasonable (1901), Whom the Gods Destroyed (1902), The insanity of Philip.. (1902), Poems (1903), within the Valley of the Shadow (1903), Julia the Apostate (1903), Mrs. Dud's Sister (1903), A Philanthropist (1903), A Reversion to kind (1903), heart elderly Love tales (1903), The relationship of woman Jane (1903), Her Fiancé (1904), Memoirs of a toddler (1904), The Imp and the Angel (1907), family Adventurers (1907), Idyll of All Fool's Day (1908), within the Border nation (1909), The Biography of a Boy (1910), Inheritance (1912), unusual instances of Dr. Stanchon (1913), success O' girl Joan (1913), To-day's Daughter (1914), Open marketplace (1915), Twilight of the Gods (1915) and Our Hill (1918).

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He would keep faith, that grave, big man! But every day, as she moved with tightened lips to the table where the mail lay spread, coloring at a foreign stamp, paling with the disappointment, her hope grew fainter. He dared not write and tell her. It was over. Violet shadows darkened her eyes; a feverish flush made her, as it grew and faded at the slightest warning, more girlish than ever. But the young life about her seemed only to mock her own late weakened impulse. It was not the same. She was playing heavy stakes: they hardly realized the game.

It was not decent. She grew satiric. How embarrassing for him to read such a letter in the bosom of an affectionate, flaxen-haired family! At least, she would never know how he really felt, thank Heaven. And what was left for her then? To her own mind she had burned her bridges already. She was as far from this place in fancy as if the miles stretched veritably between them. And yet she knew no other life. She knew no other men. He was the only one. In a flash of shame it came over her that a woman with more experience would never have written such a letter.

What beautiful hair she had! What an idiot she was to give up four years of her life to this round of work and play and pretence of living! Oh, to go back to Germany—to see Bertha and her mother again, and hear the father’s ‘cello! Hermann had loved her so! He had said, so quietly and yet so surely: “But thou wilt come back, my heart’s own. And always I wait here for thee. ” He had seemed too quiet then—too slow and too easily content. She had wanted quicker, busier, more individual life. ” Was it too late?

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A Philanthropist, and A Reversion to Type by Josephine Daskam


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