After a while the unhappiness of the past seemed to have faded
from her mind. She spoke little of Paris, less of the dull
pension, and never of Pasquale. She bore towards him an animal's
silent animosity against a human being who has done it an
unforgettable injury. On the other hand, as I have since
discovered, she was slowly developing, and had begun to realise
that in giving herself light-heartedly to a man whom she did not
love, she had committed a crime against her sex, for which she
had paid a heavy penalty: a sentiment, however, which did not
mitigate her resentment against him. Often I saw her sitting
with knitted brows, her needlework idle on her lap, evidently
unravelling some complicated problem; presently she would either
shake her head sadly as if the intellectual process were too hard
for her and resume her needle, or if she happened to catch my
glance, she would start, smile reassuringly at me, and apply
herself with exaggerated zeal to her work. These fits of
abstraction were not those of a woman speculating on mysteries of
the near future.
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