There was in him no pity, no
generosity, nothing whatever of these fine things--it was for her, for
her very own self such as it was, that this human being cared. This
certitude would have made her put up with worse torments. For, of
course, she too was being tormented. She felt also helpless, as if the
whole enterprise had been too much for her. This is the sort of
conviction which makes for quietude. She was becoming a fatalist.
What must have been rather appalling were the necessities of daily life,
the intercourse of current trifles. That naturally had to go on. They
wished good morning to each other, they sat down together to meals--and I
believe there would be a game of cards now and then in the evening,
especially at first. What frightened her most was the duplicity of her
father, at least what looked like duplicity, when she remembered his
persistent, insistent whispers on deck. However her father was a
taciturn person as far back as she could remember him best--on the
Parade. It was she who chattered, never troubling herself to discover
whether he was pleased or displeased.
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