And I even triumphed in my ugliness. 'I have a husband who
doesn't mind,' I thought. 'And I have a friend who doesn't mind. They
love me, both of them, whatever I look like. It's me--the woman inside
--they love, because they know I care, and how I care for them.' And
that thought made me feel as if I could do anything for Maurice and
anything for you; heroic things, or small, dreadful, necessary things;
as if I could be the servant of, or sacrifice my life easily for,
those who loved me so splendidly, who knew how to love so splendidly.
And I was happy then even in sacrificing my happiness with Maurice.
And I thanked God then for not having given me beauty.
"And I was a fool. But I didn't find it out. And so I revelled in
self-sacrifice. You don't know, you could never understand, how I
enjoyed doing the most menial things for you in your illness. Often
you thanked me, and often you seemed ashamed that I should do such
things. And the doctor--that little Frenchman--apologized to me.
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