Мідлмарч

           Ifhehaddrawnhertowardshim,shewouldneverhavesurveyedhim—neverhavesaid,"Isheworthlivingfor?"butwouldhavefelthimsimplyapartofherownlife.Nowshesaidbitterly,"Itishisfault,notmine."Inthejarofherwholebeing,Pitywasoverthrown.Wasitherfaultthatshehadbelievedinhim—hadbelievedinhisworthiness?—Andwhat,exactly,washe?—Shewasableenoughtoestimatehim—shewhowaitedonhisglanceswithtrembling,andshutherbestsoulinprison,payingitonlyhiddenvisits,thatshemightbepettyenoughtopleasehim.Insuchacrisisasthis,somewomenbegintohate.

           ThesunwaslowwhenDorotheawasthinkingthatshewouldnotgodownagain,butwouldsendamessagetoherhusbandsayingthatshewasnotwellandpreferredremainingup-stairs.Shehadneverdeliberatelyallowedherresentmenttogovernherinthiswaybefore,butshebelievednowthatshecouldnotseehimagainwithouttellinghimthetruthaboutherfeeling,andshemustwaittillshecoulddoitwithoutinterruption.Hemightwonderandbehurtathermessage.Itwasgoodthatheshouldwonderandbehurt.Herangersaid,asangerisapttosay,thatGodwaswithher—thatallheaven,thoughitwerecrowdedwithspiritswatchingthem,mustbeonherside.Shehaddeterminedtoringherbell,whentherecamearapatthedoor.

           Mr.Casaubonhadsenttosaythathewouldhavehisdinnerinthelibrary.Hewishedtobequitealonethisevening,beingmuchoccupied.