I write to you today from the sanctuary of the Red Deeps. I am far from everything. I hear neither the rush of the water nor the clack-clack-clack of the mill's wheel. Nothing but gentle chirping of crickets and cheerful birdsong invade my perception, and I feel as though I am at peace. If only you had eyes, that you could see the glorious surroundings for yourself and if only you had understanding so as to absorb what I write in your pages and respond!
Alas, you are a book and you are just a reflection of myself. I am lonely.
It is not as though I have no companions. I have Philip, at the very least. We met once again by the rotted oak stump an hour ago, as usual, and conversed and sang but I feel as though I am obliged to come here. I feel strongly for Philip, like a mother does for a child. If he were hurt, I would blame myself and of course from the possibility my trouble is born. I love him.
I love him and would gladly sign up to be his protector. He shows me affection when I welcome him into my world. Poor outcast! I must be his shield and sword.
Part of me reasons that his interests are selfish. Am I not the only woman who overlooks his deformity? He may mean to ensnare me with his broken heart and pleading eyes, but then, if I am not the one for him, who is?
I know of no girl who would take him. Why have I been led into this unwanted duty? I am trapped, oh how I am trapped.
Gina
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