Then, a little later, there was a tone of complaint in what he wrote,
which suddenly irritated her. He told her that his life was dreary and
tiresome, and that the people about him did not understand him. She
answered that he should occupy himself, that he should find something to
do and do it, and that she herself never had time enough in the day for
all she undertook. It was the sort of letter which a very young woman
will sometimes write to a man whose existence she does not understand,
a little patronizing in tone and superior with the self-assurance of
successful and unfeeling youth. She even pointed out to him that there
were several things which he did not know, but which he might learn if
he chose, all of which was undoubtedly true, though it was not at all
what he wanted. For him, however, the whole letter was redeemed by a
chance phrase at the end of it. She carelessly wrote that she wished he
were at Muro to see what she had done in a short time. He knew that the
words meant nothing, but he lived on them for a time, because she had
written them to him. His next letter was more cheerful. He repeated her
own words, as though wishing her to see how much he valued them, saying
that he wished indeed that he were at Muro, to see what she had
accomplished. To some extent, he added, the fulfilment of the wish only
depended on herself, for in the following week he was going with his
father and mother and all the family to spend a month in a place they
had not far from Avellino, and that, as she knew, was not at an
impossible distance from Muro.
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