And Thelma was often now in need of rest. As the season drew towards its
close, she found herself strangely tired and dispirited. The life she
was compelled to lead was all unsuited to her nature--it was artificial
and constrained,--and she was often unhappy. Why? Why, indeed! She did
her best,--but she made enemies everywhere. Again, why? Because she had
a most pernicious,--most unpleasant habit of telling the truth. Like
Socrates, she seemed to say--"If any man should appear to me not to
possess virtue, but to pretend that he does, I shall reproach him." This
she expressed silently in face, voice, and manner,--and, like Socrates,
she might have added that she went about "perceiving, indeed, and
grieving and alarmed that she was making herself odious." For she
discovered, by degrees, that many people looked strangely upon her--that
others seemed afraid of her--and she continually heard that she was
considered "eccentric." So she became more reserved--even cold,--she was
content to let others argue about trifles, and air their whims and
follies without offering an opinion on any side.
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