And one must keep thinking; it's a
constant effort. I'm not sure it's not a greater happiness to be
powerless."
"For weak people I've no doubt it's a greater happiness. For weak
people the effort not to be contemptible must be great."
"And how do you know I'm not weak?" Isabel asked.
"Ah," Ralph answered with a flush that the girl noticed, "if you are
I'm awfully sold!"
The charm of the Mediterranean coast only deepened for our heroine
on acquaintance, for it was the threshold of Italy, the gate of
admirations. Italy, as yet imperfectly seen and felt, stretched before
her as a land of promise, a land in which a love of the beautiful
might be comforted by endless knowledge. Whenever she strolled upon
the shore with her cousin- and she was the companion of his daily
walk- she looked across the sea, with longing eyes, to where she
knew that Genoa lay. She was glad to pause, however, on the edge of
this larger adventure; there was such a thrill even in the preliminary
hovering. It affected her moreover as a peaceful interlude, as a
hush of the drum and fife in a career which she had little warrant
as yet for regarding as agitated, but which nevertheless she was
constantly picturing to herself by the light of her hopes, her
fears, her fancies, her ambitions, her predilections, and which
reflected these subjective accidents in a manner sufficiently
dramatic.
Pages:
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392