And yet something
else in her knew that that reproach was not a true one. She had
really softened towards him only because she had felt that she had
behaved badly towards him, and the discovery now that he had behaved
badly towards her did not alter her own original behaviour. She did
not analyse all this; she only knew that there were in her longings
for affection, a desire to be loved, an aching for companionship,
and that these things must always be kept down, fast hidden within
her. She realised her loneliness now with a fierce, proud, almost
exultant independence. No more tears, no more leaning upon others,
no more expecting anything from anybody. She was not dramatic in her
new independence; she did not cry defiance to the golden mist or the
larks or the hidden sun; she only walked on and on, stumping forward
in her clumsy boots, her eyes hard and unseeing, her hands clasped
behind her back.
Her expectation of happiness in her opening life that had been so
strong with her that other day when she had looked down upon
Polchester was gone. She expected nothing, she wanted nothing. Her
only thought was that she would never yield to any one, never care
for any one, never give to any one the opportunity of touching her.
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