All my life the people I have loved--Ilsa, Cousin Anna, Silver, Myra Turnbull, Joshua Tisbury--have accepted me as a friend, have confided in me--but, somehow, there has been no actual contact made. It has been almost as though they could talk to me because I didn't exist. I think that's because there has been no give and take. I have a pitcher into which the people I love have poured themselves. I have accepted everything and been allowed to give nothing. When they discover that I have passions of my own it seems to jar them. In