That most of the interest of the time
had been owing to Mr. Osmond was a reflexion she was not just now at
pains to make; she had already done the point abundant justice. But
she said to herself that if there were a danger they should never meet
again, perhaps after all it would be as well. Happy things don't
repeat themselves, and her adventure wore already the changed, the
seaward face of some romantic island from which, after feasting on
purple grapes, she was putting off while the breeze rose. She might
come back to Italy and find him different- this strange man who
pleased her just as he was; and it would be better not to come than
run the risk of that. But if she was not to come the greater the
pity that the chapter was closed; she felt for a moment a pang that
touched the source of tears. The sensation kept her silent, and
Gilbert Osmond was silent too; he was looking at her. "Go everywhere,"
he said at last, in a low, kind voice; "do everything; get
everything out of life. Be happy- be triumphant."
"What do you mean by being triumphant?"
"Well, doing what you like."
"To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail! Doing all the vain
things one likes is often very tiresome.
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