She had never known anything of that sort of
friendship with her husband which already seemed to be quite
established between these two.
In her misery one day Lady Laura told the whole story of her own
unhappiness to her brother, saying nothing of Phineas Finn,--thinking
nothing of him as she told her story, but speaking more strongly
perhaps than she should have done, of the terrible dreariness of her
life at Loughlinter, and of her inability to induce her husband to
alter it for her sake.
"Do you mean that he,--ill-treats you?" said the brother, with a
scowl on his face which seemed to indicate that he would like no task
better than that of resenting such ill-treatment.
"He does not beat me, if you mean that."
"Is he cruel to you? Does he use harsh language?"
"He never said a word in his life either to me or, as I believe, to
any other human being, that he would think himself bound to regret."
"What is it then?"
"He simply chooses to have his own way, and his way cannot be my way.
He is hard, and dry, and just, and dispassionate, and he wishes me to
be the same. That is all."
"I tell you fairly, Laura, as far as I am concerned, I never could
speak to him. He is antipathetic to me. But then I am not his wife."
"I am;--and I suppose I must bear it.
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