You might have written me a few lines."
"It wasn't the trouble of writing that prevented me; I could as
easily have written you four pages as one. But my silence was an
intention," Isabel said. "I thought it the best thing."
He sat with his eyes fixed on hers while she spoke; then he
lowered them and attached them to a spot in the carpet as if he were
making a strong effort to say nothing but what he ought. He was a
strong man in the wrong, and he was acute enough to see that an
uncompromising exhibition of his strength would only throw the falsity
of his position into relief. Isabel was not incapable of tasting any
advantage of position over a person of this quality, and though little
desirous to flaunt it in his face she could enjoy being able to say
"You know you oughtn't to have written to me yourself!" and to say
it with an air of triumph.
Caspar Goodwood raised his eyes to her own again; they seemed to
shine through the vizard of a helmet. He had a strong sense of justice
and was ready any day in the year- over and above this- to argue the
question of his rights. "You said you hoped never to hear from me
again; I know that.
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