And
for a moment I understood the desire of that man to whom the sea and sky
of his solitary life had appeared suddenly incomplete without that glance
which seemed to belong to them both. He was not for nothing the son of a
poet. I looked into those unabashed eyes while the girl went on, her
demure appearance and precise tone changed to a very earnest expression.
Woman is various indeed.
"But I want you to understand, Mr. . . . " she had actually to think of
my name . . . "Mr. Marlow, that I have written to Mrs. Fyne that I
haven't been--that I have done nothing to make Captain Anthony behave to
me as he had behaved. I haven't. I haven't. It isn't my doing. It
isn't my fault--if she likes to put it in that way. But she, with her
ideas, ought to understand that I couldn't, that I couldn't . . . I know
she hates me now. I think she never liked me. I think nobody ever cared
for me. I was told once nobody could care for me; and I think it is
true. At any rate I can't forget it."
Her abominable experience with the governess had implanted in her unlucky
breast a lasting doubt, an ineradicable suspicion of herself and of
others.
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