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THE ROAD I KNOW 21 




"That damned charm! " he muttered, shaking his head.




For Betty's outer person was just that. Charm—charm and gaiety. And a 

delightful wit, that was wit because of new angles of view, and of modes 

of expression so original and unexpected that the stiffest formalist must 


yield to it. I suppose it carried so far because it was in no way artificial, or 

considered, or thought over. It was Betty's normal language, the way she 

thought, and therefore the way she spoke. Like all wit of that kind, while 


unforgettable, it is equally unquotable. In report most of it becomes mere 

museum mountings without the breath of life. But no one was ever bored 

with Betty. Even though what she had to say might be dryly statistical, 


one found himself alert for what she would make of it. I lived with her 

thirty-five years, and—though there was plenty more—in all that time I 

was always relishingly entertained, and continually anticipating what 


next.



However, it was not the outer expression but the inner person that made 


the charm memorable; made it stick, as it were. Apparently people never 

forgot Betty. She made an indelible impress. After her death I received 

several hundred letters—and I mean letters pages long, not mere "notes of 


condolence." An extraordinary number of them were from people who 

had met her just once and years before—from twelve to thirty-two years 

before—but who wrote as though




































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