Did she think I had made love to her, even to get the papers?
I had not, I had not; I repeated that over to myself for an hour,
for two hours, till I was wearied if not convinced.
I don't know where my gondolier took me; we floated aimlessly
about in the lagoon, with slow, rare strokes. At last I became
conscious that we were near the Lido, far up, on the right hand,
as you turn your back to Venice, and I made him put me ashore.
I wanted to walk, to move, to shed some of my bewilderment.
I crossed the narrow strip and got to the sea beach--I took my
way toward Malamocco. But presently I flung myself down again
on the warm sand, in the breeze, on the coarse dry grass.
It took it out of me to think I had been so much at fault,
that I had unwittingly but nonetheless deplorably trifled.
But I had not given her cause--distinctly I had not.
I had said to Mrs. Prest that I would make love to her;
but it had been a joke without consequences and I had never
said it to Tita Bordereau. I had been as kind as possible,
because I really liked her; but since when had that become a crime
where a woman of such an age and such an appearance was concerned?
I am far from remembering clearly the succession of events and
feelings during this long day of confusion, which I spent entirely
in wandering about, without going home, until late at night;
it only comes back to me that there were moments when I
pacified my conscience and others when I lashed it into pain.
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