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was done on pure gold with some special hand workmanship.” I think it might have been done with native workmen, but if not, they were still beautiful links - not plain, but wrought, with little balls in between. He had had it mounted as a gift for her mother. She said it was very precious to her because of that. She said she thought a great deal of her father. It was one of the few things that she had that linked her life to his.

I think that's what started the conversation, but it may have been something else. At least, this description of the necklace took place during the conversation. During the time while we brushed our hair, washed our teeth and got into our respective beds, sitting up in bed finally, she told me the story of her life. I didn't ask. I showed no curiosity. I was somewhat surprised, and yet it was the kind of a story that, as it was told, you realized the individual had some need for telling it. I've noticed ever since I was a little girl that people tell me things that are so intimate and so personal that I wouldn't think they would tell them to anybody, but they tell them to me. Nobody ever told me that I must never open my mouth about those things, but I've always known intuitively that I must never remember that they told me and never refer to it. I certainly must never tell anybody else. I also mustn't