" She laid her
hand on his. "I should actually like to love you--in a way I do. I'm
afraid I've very little conscience about it. But somehow--yes, somehow
again--it's all a hopeless puzzle--I can't altogether, not as you mean. I
understand it very little myself, and I know you won't understand it at
all, but--well, Alexander imprisons me; I can't escape from him; as long
as he's there he keeps me." She looked in Marchmont's face and then shook
her head, half-sadly, half-playfully. "You don't understand a bit, do
you?" she asked.
"No, I don't," he said bluntly, with an accent of impatience and almost
of exasperation. Recognising it, she gave the slightest shrug of her
shoulders.
"It's my infatuation again, I suppose, as you all said when I married
him. It makes you all angry. Oh, it makes me angry too, as far as that
goes."
"He's ruining your whole life."
She made no answer, relapsing into the still silence which had preceded
her tears. Marchmont was baffled again by his old inability to follow the
movements of her mind and the old sense of blindness in dealing with her
to which it gave rise.
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