She felt as though he were wilfully trying to tug it away from her.
Why was it that she had never shrunk from the faults of Martin and
Uncle Mathew--faults so plain and obvious--and now shrunk from
Paul's? Paul's were such little ones--a desire for praise and
appreciation, a readiness to be cheated into believing that all was
well when he knew that things were very wrong, an eagerness to be
liked even by quite worthless people, sloth and laziness, living
lies that were of no importance save as sign-posts to the cowardice
of his soul. Yes, cowardice! That was the worst of all. Was it his
religion that had made him cowardly? Why was Maggie so terribly
certain that if the necessity for physical defence of her or some
helpless creature arose Paul would evade it and talk about "turning
the other cheek"? He was so large a man and so soft--a terrific
egoist finally, in the centre of his soul, an egoist barricaded by
superstitions and fears and lies, but not a ruthless egoist, because
that demanded energy.
And yet, with all this, he had so many good points. He was a child,
a baby, like so many clergymen.
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