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She had always had a great reverence for her friend, which had been
mingled with her love for him, giving it its character. Was this
reverence to be torn utterly away? Had it already been cast to the
winds?
Poor Emile!
In the first moments after the departure of the Marchesino she pitied
Emile intensely with all her heart of woman. If this thing were true,
how he must have suffered, how he must still be suffering--not only in
his heart, but in his mind! His sense of pride, his self-respect, his
passion for complete independence, his meticulous consciousness of the
fitness of things, of what could be and what was impossible--all must
by lying in the dust. She could almost have wept for him then.
But another feeling succeeded this sense of pity, a sensation of
outrage that grew within her and became almost ungovernable. She had
her independence too, her pride, her self-respect. And now she saw
them in dust that Emile had surely heaped about them. A storm of
almost hard anger shook her.


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