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In her eyes I was practically a saint, bringing civilization and truth to the poor ignorant natives.
People were saying a lot of stuff like that at the time, and the poor woman got carried away by it all.
“After this I got embraced, told to wear flannel, be sure to write often, and so on—and I left.
In the street—I don’t know why—a queer feeling came to me that I was an imposter.
It’s too beautiful to be real, and if they tried to make it happen it would fall apart before the first sunset.
Some well-known fact that we men have been living with since the beginning of time would come and knock the whole thing over.
There had been a lot of such rot let loose in print and talk just about that time, and the excellent woman, living right in the rush of all that humbug, got carried off her feet.
“After this she hugged me and told me to wear flannel, be sure to write often, and so on.
I don’t know why, but in the street I felt like an imposter. I was used to taking off for any part of the world at a day’s notice without a second thought, but now I paused.
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“One thing more remained to do—say good-bye to my excellent aunt. I had a cup of tea—the last decent cup of tea for many days—and in a room that most soothingly looked just as you would expect a lady’s drawing-room to look, we had a long quiet chat by the fireside.