Only a little outside bit of a framework had
been twisted awry. Could that matter very much? Had she not perhaps been
morbid in her despair?
She determined to take courage. She told herself that if she allowed this
dreadful, invading humbleness way in her she would lose all power to
dominate another by showing that she had ceased to dominate herself. If
she met Robin in fear and trembling she would actually teach him to
despise her. If she showed that she thought herself changed, horrible, he
would inevitably catch her thought and turn it to her own destruction.
Men despise those who despise themselves. She knew that, and she argued
with herself, fought with herself. If Robin loved the angel; surely he
could still love. For if there were an angel within her it had not been
harmed. And she leaned on the stone wall and prayed again while the roses
touched her altered face.
It seemed to her then that courage was sent to her. She felt less
terrified of what was before her, as if something had risen up within her
upon which she could lean, as if her soul began to support the trembling,
craven thing that would betray her, began to teach it how to be still.
She did not feel happy, but she felt less desperately miserable than she
had felt since the accident.
After /dejeuner/ she walked again in the garden. As the time drew near
for Robin to arrive, the dreadful feverish anxiety of the early morning
awoke again within her.
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