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Updated: July 17, 2025


He had never been very good at Greek. His mother, if she had been a man and had gone to Oxford or Cambridge, would have made a far better classic than he. She had helped him sometimes during the holidays when he was quite small. He remembered exactly how she had looked when he had been conjugating half-loving and half-satirical. He had made a good many mistakes.

They swarmed about her; one by one she recognized them: the woman who unable to bear up under her tragedy soon sinks into eternity or walks into it; the woman who disappears from the scene and somewhere under another name or with another lot lives on devoting herself to memory or to forgetfulness; the woman who stays on in the house, giving to the world no sign for the sake of everything else that still remains to her but living apart on the other side of the locked door; the woman who stays on without locking the door, half-hating, half-loving the accepted and rejected compromise; the woman who welcomes the end of the love-drama as the beginning of peace and the cessation of annoyances; the woman who begins to act her tragedy to servants and children and acquaintances reaping sympathy for herself and sowing ruin and torture for him; the woman who drops the care of house, ends his comforts, thus forcing the sharp reminder of her value as at least an investment toward his general well-being; the woman who endeavors to rekindle dying coals by fanning them with fresh fascinations; the woman who plays upon jealousy and touches the male instinct to keep one's own though little prized lest another acquire it and prize it more; the woman who sets a watch to discover the other woman: they swarmed about her, she identified each.

It has just that half-roguish, half-loving expression with which he would look at me sometimes, when I would come and brush back his hair and look into his eyes. Every time I go in or out of the room, it seems to give so bright a smile that I almost think that a spirit dwells within it.

At a bad crisis, indeed, for everybody concerned. The picture which Ramona had seen, as she reached the gate, was this: Alessandro, standing with his back against the fence, his right hand hanging listlessly down, with the pruning-knife in it, his left hand in the hand of Margarita, who stood close to him, looking up in his face, with a half-saucy, half-loving expression.

Joy gave a long sigh of relief. "Then you're not engaged to Gail?" He gave the hands he held a little half-impatient, half-loving shake. "Would I have asked you to marry me under those circumstances?" "You never asked me to marry you," said Joy in a subdued voice. She felt as if the world were coming down around her ears. "I was a trial fiancee, and a good deal of a trial at that, as you said.

Very often this difficulty is greater in proportion as a girl has rightly profited by school in proportion as she has been teachable and ready to assimilate good; she goes home with new aspirations to be met by old prejudices prejudices intensified by half-loving jealousy of the alien influences of school. Are you to shut your eyes to the new lights, and be as though you had never known them?

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