She was jealous, doubly jealous. The monopolizing instinct of strong-
natured and deeply affectionate women was fiercely alive in her.
Always, no doubt, she had had it. Long ago, when first she was in
Sicily alone, she had dreamed of a love in the South--far away from
the world. When she married she had carried her Mercury to the
exquisite isolation of Monte Amato. And when that love was taken from
her, and her child came and was at the age of blossom, she had brought
her child to this isle, this hermitage of the sea. Emile, too, her one
great friend, she had never wished to share him. She had never cared
much to meet him in society. Her instinct was to have him to herself,
to be with him alone in unfrequented places. She was greedy or she was
timid. Which was it? Perhaps she lacked self-confidence, belief in her
own attractive power. Life in the world is a fight. Woman fight for
their lovers, fight for their friends, with other women: those many
women who are born thieves, who are never happy unless they are taking
from their sisters the possessions those sisters care for most.
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