She was ashamed to admit that her personal enthusiasm for
him had in any way abated, and yet she was becoming conscious of that
absolute lack of any real cordiality, of any evidence of affection in
his demeanour towards her and every one else with whom he was brought
into contact. She knew very well what the world's account of him was,
for in the old days they had read sketches of his career up in the
little farmhouse amongst the mountains. They had read of his indomitable
will, of his absolute heartlessness, the stern, persistent individuality
which climbs and climbs, heedless of those who must fall by the way.
Perhaps he was really like this. Perhaps her first impressions had been
wrong. Then, with a sudden wave of shame, she remembered the joyous,
affectionate letters which every post brought her from the home, which
notwithstanding all her sufferings, she had loved so dearly. She looked
down at the pearls which hung from her neck. She saw herself in her
spotless muslin gown. She felt the touch of laces and silk, all the
nameless effect of this environment of luxury thrilled in her blood. It
was better, she decided, that she did not think of the future at all.
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