You were not as other men, you
knew nothing of the ways of the world or of women or of passion
--you were reserved, intellectual--you viewed things in a queer
light of your own. I felt that the touch of a chain would fret
you. I gave you
absolute freedom--often when I craved for you. I made no
demands. I assented to your philosophic analysis of the
situation--it is your way to moralise whimsically on everything,
as if you were a disconnected intelligence outside the universe
--and I paid no attention to it. I used to laugh at you--oh, not
unkindly, but lovingly, happily, victoriously. Oh, yes, I was a
fool--what woman in love isn't? I thought I gave you all you
needed. I was content, secure. I magnified every little
demonstration. When you touched my ear it was more to me than
the embrace of another man might have been. I have lived on one
kiss of yours for a week. To you the kiss was of no more value
than a cigarette. I wish," she added in a whisper, "I wish I
were dead!"
She had spoken in a low, monotonous voice, staring haggardly at
the fire, while I knelt by her side.
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