Her head was
slightly bent and she seemed to be looking at the ground.
"And then came the night of the Carmine. Hermione, after you and Vere
had gone to bed Panacci and I had a quarrel. He attacked me violently.
He told me--he told me that I was in love with Vere, and that you, and
even--even that Gaspare knew it. At the moment I think I laughed at
him. I thought his accusation ridiculous. But when he was gone--and
afterwards--I examined myself. I tried to know myself. I spent hours
in self-examination, cruel self-examination. I did not spare myself.
Believe that, Hermione! Believe that!"
"I do believe it."
"And at the end I knew that it was not true. I was not, I had never
been in love with Vere. When I thought of Vere and myself in such a
relation my spirit recoiled. Such a thing seemed to me monstrous. But
though I knew that it was not true, I knew also that I had been
jealous of Vere, unjust to others because of Vere. I had been,
perhaps, foolish, undignified. Perhaps--perhaps--for how can we be
quite sure of ourselves.
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