Возвращение на родину

XI. The Dishonesty of an Honest Woman

           

           Eustaciaagainremainedinasortofstupefiedsilence.Whatcuriousfeelingwasthiscomingoverher?WasitreallypossiblethatherinterestinWildevehadbeensoentirelytheresultofantagonismthatthegloryandthedreamdepartedfromthemanwiththefirstsoundthathewasnolongercovetedbyherrival?Shewas,then,secureofhimatlast.Thomasinnolongerrequiredhim.Whatahumiliatingvictory!Helovedherbest,shethought;andyet—daredshetomurmursuchtreacherouscriticismeversosoftly?—whatwasthemanworthwhomawomaninferiortoherselfdidnotvalue?Thesentimentwhichlurksmoreorlessinallanimatenature—thatofnotdesiringtheundesiredofothers—waslivelyasapassioninthesupersubtle,epicureanheartofEustacia.Hersocialsuperiorityoverhim,whichhithertohadscarcelyeverimpressedher,becameunpleasantlyinsistent,andforthefirsttimeshefeltthatshehadstoopedinlovinghim.

           “Well,darling,youagree?”saidWildeve.

           “IfitcouldbeLondon,orevenBudmouth,insteadofAmerica,”shemurmuredlanguidly.“Well,Iwillthink.Itistoogreatathingformetodecideoffhand.IwishIhatedtheheathless—orlovedyoumore.”

           “Youcanbepainfullyfrank.Youlovedmeamonthagowarmlyenoughtogoanywherewithme.”

           “AndyoulovedThomasin.”

           “Yes,perhapsthatwaswherethereasonlay,”hereturned,withalmostasneer.“Idon’thatehernow.”

           “Exactly.Theonlythingisthatyoucannolongergether.”

           “Come—notaunts,Eustacia,orweshallquarrel.

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