... And perhaps after all you're right--your vision is as good as
another. But this time you've made me restless. You're never to see me
as a noble woman again, Ivan Andreievitch. See me as I am, just for
five minutes! I haven't a drop of noble feeling in my soul!"
"You've just given him up," I said. "You've sent him back to England,
although you adore him, because your duty's with your husband. You're
breaking your heart--"
"Yes, I am breaking my heart," she said quietly. "I'm a dead woman
without him. And it's my weakness, my cowardice, that is sending him
away. What would a French woman or an English woman have done? Given up
the world for their lover. Given up a thousand Nicholases, sacrificed a
hundred Ninas--that's real life. That's real, I tell you. What feeling
is there in my soul that counts for a moment beside my feeling for
Sherry? I say and I feel and I know that I would die for him, die with
him, happily, gladly. Those are no empty words.
"I who have never been in love before, I am devoured by it now until
there is nothing left of me--nothing.... And yet I remain. It is our
weakness, our national idleness.
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