When
he fell in love with May Gaston, however, part of her attraction for him
had lain in his sense of a difference between them, of her grasp on
things and on aspects of things which eluded him; in this mood he had
been prepared to worship, to learn, to amend. These things for a little
while he had done or attempted, and had been met by zealous efforts to
the same end on her part. His great moments had been frequent then, and
May had felt that the risky work she had undertaken might prosper and at
last be crowned with success. As for some months back this idea of hers
had been dying, even so Quisante's humble mood died. Now his suspicious
vanity saw blame of what he was, or even contempt of him, in every word
by which she might seem to invite him to become anything different.
Though she had declared herself on his side by the most vital action of
her life, he imputed to her a leaning towards treachery; her heart was
more with his critics than with him. Yet he did not become indifferent
to her praise or her blame, but rather grew morbidly sensitive and
exacting, intolerant of questioning and disliking even a smile.
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