She had married him without
loving him, but it seemed to her that he was in fault for that. They
had become wretched, but she had never pitied his wretchedness. She
had left him, and thought herself to be ill-used because he had
ventured to reclaim his wife. Through it all she had been true in her
regard to the one man she had ever loved, and,--though she admitted
her own folly and knew her own shipwreck,--yet she had always drawn
some woman's consolation from the conviction of her own constancy.
He had vanished from her sight for a while with a young wife,--never
from her mind,--and then he had returned a widower. Through silence,
absence, and distance she had been true to him. On his return to
his old ways she had at once welcomed him and strove to aid him.
Everything that was hers should be his,--if only he would open his
hands to take it. And she would tell it him all,--let him know every
corner of her heart. She was a married woman, and could not be his
wife. She was a woman of virtue, and would not be his mistress.
Pages:
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065