To brood over misery, to flatter
yourself that there is not a single being who cares for your existence,
and not a single circumstance to make that existence desirable: there
is wild witchery in it, which we doubt whether opium can reach, and are
sure that wine cannot.
And the Duke! He soon left the uncle and nephew to their miserable
speculations about the state of the poll, and took his sullen way,
with the air of Ajax, to the terrace. Here he stalked along in a fierce
reverie; asked why he had been born; why he did not die; why he should
live, and so on. His wounded pride, which had borne so much, fairly
got the mastery, and revenged itself for all insults on Love, whom it
ejected most scurvily. He blushed to think how he had humiliated
himself before her. She was the cause of that humiliation, and of every
disagreeable sensation that he was experiencing. He began, therefore, to
imprecate vengeance, walked himself into a fair, cold-hearted, malicious
passion, and avowed most distinctly that he hated her. As for him, most
ardently he hoped that, some day or other, they might again meet at
six o'clock in the morning in Kensington Gardens, but in a different
relation to each other.
Pages:
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466