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Kickin’ it old-school with some Henry James re-reading.

I scarce know how to put my story into words that shall be a credible picture of my state of mind; but I was in these days literally able to find a joy in the extraordinary flight of heroism the occasion demanded of me. I now saw that I had been asked for a service admirable and difficult; and there would be a greatness in letting it be seen–oh, in the right quarter!–that I could succeed where many another girl might have failed. It was an immense hep to me–I confess I rather applaud myself as I look back!–that I saw my service so strongly and so simply. I was there to protect and defend the little creatures in the world the most bereaved and the most lovable, the appeal of whose helplessness had suddenly become only too explicit, a deep, constant ache of one’s own committed heart. We were cut off, really, together; we were united in our danger. […][1]

Hah. Silly governess. I only now realize she really was kinda crazy. Ghosts my ass. As of now, I am firmly in the camp of those who believe the governess to be bonkers. Those who still care to argue that there were ghosts: please, go ahead.


[1] Henry James, The Turn of the Screw (1898; Clayton, 2006), 44.