"We women are full of little fears, even the bravest of us. Chase mine
away, Emile."
He sat down.
"What are they?"
She shook her head.
"Formless--or almost. But perhaps that adds to the uneasiness they
inspire. To put them into words would be impossible."
"Away with them!"
"Willingly."
Her eyes seemed to be asking him questions, to be not quite satisfied,
not quite sure of something.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I wonder if you have it in you to be angry with me."
"Make your confession."
"I have Peppina here."
"Of course."
"You knew--?"
"I have known you as an impulsive for--how many years? Why should you
change?"
He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he continued:
"Sometimes you remind me--in spots, as it were--of George Sand."
She laughed, not quite without bitterness.
"In spots, indeed!"
"She described herself once in a book as having 'a great facility' for
illusions, a blind benevolence of judgment, a tenderness of heart that
was inexhaustible--"
"Oh!"
"Wait! From these qualities, she said, came hurry, mistakes
innumerable, heroic devotion to objects that were worthless, much
weakness, tremendous disappointments.
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