He saw how pure, how pellucid, how
noble the woman was; treading her own ideal world of high seraphic
harmonies. He was in love with her stainless soul; he could not
have loved her so well, could not have admired her so profoundly,
had she been other than she was, had she shared the common
prejudices and preconceptions of women. It was just because she
was Herminia that he felt so irresistibly attracted towards her.
She drew him like a magnet. What he loved and admired was not so
much the fair, frank face itself, as the lofty Cornelia-like spirit
behind it.
And yet,--he hesitated.
Could he accept the sacrifice this white soul wished to make for
him? Could he aid and abet her in raising up for herself so much
undeserved obloquy? Could he help her to become Anathema maranatha
among her sister women? Even if she felt brave enough to try the
experiment herself for humanity's sake, was it not his duty as a
man to protect her from her own sublime and generous impulses? Is
it not for that in part that nature makes us virile? We must
shield the weaker vessel.
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