But that was
nothing. For the woman had no soul or mind, only her beauty, and an
unscrupulous sort of ambition which made her want to marry me when my
uncle left me his money. She'd refused to do anything more serious than
flirt and reduce me to misery, until she thought I could give her what
she wanted. I'd imagined myself horribly in love, until her sudden
willingness to take me showed me once for all what she was. Even so, I
couldn't cure the habit of love at first; but I had just sense enough to
keep out of England, where she was, for fear I should lose my head and
marry her. My cure was rather slow, but it was sure; and now I know that
what I thought was love then wasn't love at all. The real thing's as
different as--as--a modern Algerian tile is from an old Moorish one. I
can't say anything stronger! That's why I cut England, to begin with,
and after a while my interests were more identified with France.
Sometimes I go to Paris in the summer--or to a little place in Dauphiny.
But I haven't been back to England for eight years. Algeria holds all my
heart. In Tlemcen is my girl. Here are my garden and my beasts. Now you
have my history since Oxford days."
"You know something of _my_ history through the papers," Stephen blurted
out with a desperate defiance of his own reserve.
"Not much of your real history, I think. Papers lie, and people
misunderstand. Don't talk of yourself unless you really want to.
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