Analyzing and generalizing about my urges never helped me. What I do isn't pretty. It's powerful. It fills my veins with a red-hot urgency. It command... me. It corrupts me. It's astonishing. It's dirty. It's brilliant. I can't control it. I'm not sure I'd honestly want it taken from me. I hate it, yet I love it. Like a devastating hurricane or a burning building, it's raw power has an aesthetic, amoral beauty and implacable purity. The truth is ugly: I love who I am and would never take my own. I telephoned all the girls I had primed and told them to present themselves at George's house on Friday. They were to travel separately so as not to attract attention. Most of them did not have ready access to a car so they would be arriving by train at the nearest station, nearly four miles away, where I would arrange to have them met. (I did not want local cab companies to wonder why they were ferrying so many beautiful women to the same house.)I had decided to invite all my existing girls as. They were jabbering and smiling holding us tight. When we arrived the driver had his hand out for the fare, and not knowing any better, I tossed him a quarter since we had no foreign currency. His face almost cracked in two with a wide smile as he quickly spoke to the two girls pointing at us. He jumped back into the jeepney and speed away."Hey, I don't know if you realize that you just gave that driver a humongous amount for the taxi ride. That quarter paid for all 5 fares and then some," the. I received no less than three changes of sturdy wool clothing, a nightgown (I hadn't worn one since before I came to Arabel!), a travel pack, and a thick cloak, all of which he paid extra to have ready before day's end.He sent me back to the bath three times before he considered me clean enough (while the first time I did not scrub behind my ears on principle, the other times I did!) then lectured me on how to care for his clothing and mine, chided me on my choice of sleeping attire, and this.
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