She does not care for me a bit." It humiliated
him and also increased his compassion for the girl who in this darkness
of life, buffeted and despairing, had fallen into the grip of his
stronger will, abandoning herself to his arms as on a night of shipwreck.
Flora on her side with partial insight (for women are never blind with
the complete masculine blindness) looked on him with some pity; and she
felt pity for herself too. It was a rejection, a casting out; nothing
new to her. But she who supposed all her sensibility dead by this time,
discovered in herself a resentment of this ultimate betrayal. She had no
resignation for this one. With a sort of mental sullenness she said to
herself: "Well, I am here. I am here without any nonsense. It is not my
fault that I am a mere worthless object of pity."
And these things which she could tell herself with a clear conscience
served her better than the passionate obstinacy of purpose could serve
Roderick Anthony. She was much more sure of herself than he was. Such
are the advantages of mere rectitude over the most exalted generosity.
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