I don't want Nevile--or to be married. I don't want anything of
the sort; I can't be bothered. I cared once--frightfully; but now I don't
care. All that was long ago; at the beginning--eight years ago. Now it's
done with, I only want to be let alone--to do my work here. It doesn't
seem to me much to ask; but--" ...
It was then that she looked at him, and was beyond the power of his
sounding. She grew vehement, full of still, passionless rage. She was like
a goddess pronouncing a decree; she was final.
"I don't want to marry Nevile. It bores me. And he doesn't want me,
really. He thinks he does, because he thinks that he can't have me any
other way. But he would be miserable, and so should I. It seems to me
impossible. You can't put life into dead things. When he came back here
the other day he had been away a year: a year and ten days. He had written
to me twice--"
Chevenix interrupted. "Excuse me," he said. "How many times had you
written to him?" He had guessed at pique; but he was wrong.
She replied slowly. "I forwarded his letters. I hadn't written at all."
Her simplicity! Chevenix allowed her to go on.
"The thing--all that it began with--was over. I felt that.
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