Grose--as I did there, over and over, in the small hours-- that with their voices in the air, their pressure on one's heart, and their fragrant faces against one's cheek, everything fell to the ground but their incapacity and their beauty. There was a roomful of old books at Bly--last-century fiction, some of it, which, to the extent of a distinctly deprecated renown, but never to so much as that of a stray specimen, had reached the sequestered home and appealed to the unavowed curiosity of my youth. That was what really overcame me, what prevented my going in. To maintain a democracy of effort requires a vast amount of patience in dealing with differing methods, a vast amount of humility.
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