For the first
time she saw that act of renunciation as the average man or woman
would probably see it; as an extraordinary, quixotic act, to be
wondered at blankly, or, perhaps, to be almost angrily condemned. She
stood away from her own impulsive, enthusiastic nature, and stared at
it critically--as even her friends had often stared--and realized that
it was unusual, perhaps extravagant, perhaps sometimes preposterous.
This readiness to sacrifice--was it not rather slavish than regally
loyal? This forgetfulness of personal joy, this burnt-offering of
personality--was it not contemptible? Could such actions bring into
being the respect of others, the respect of any man? Had Emile
respected her for rushing to Africa? Or had he, perhaps, then and
through all these years, simply wondered how she could have done such
a thing?
And Maurice--Maurice? Oh, what had he thought? How had he looked upon
that action?
Often and often in lonely hours she had longed to go down into the
grave, or to go up into the blue, to drag the body, the soul, the
heart she loved back to her.
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