Quite early, I
should imagine, she had adopted that as the sort of talisman that would
save her from every kind of ill. She told me once that when she was a
little girl, the story of the witch who lured two children into the wood
and then roasted them in her oven had terrified her beyond all control,
and she would lie awake and shiver for hours because of it. It became a
symbol of life to her--the Forest was there and the Oven and the
Witch--and so clever and subtle was the Witch that the only way to
outwit her was by pride. Then there was also her maternal tenderness; it
was through that that Markovitch won her. She had not of course loved
him--she had never pretended to herself that she had--but she had seen
that he wanted caring for, and then, having taken the decisive step, her
pride had come to her aid, had shown her a glimpse of the Witch waiting
in the Forest darkness, and had proved to her that here was her great
opportunity. She had then, with the easy superiority of a young girl,
ignorant of life, dismissed love as of something that others might care
for but that would, in no case, concern herself.
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