Familiarity had modified in some degree her first
impression of Madame Merle, but it had not essentially altered it;
there was still much wonder of admiration in it. That personage was
armed at all points; it was a pleasure to see a character so
completely equipped for the social battle. She carried her flag
discreetly, but her weapons were polished steel, and she used them
with a skill which struck Isabel as more and more that of a veteran.
She was never weary, never overcome with disgust; she never appeared
to need rest or consolation. She had her own ideas; she had of old
exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who knew also that under an
appearance of extreme self-control her highly-cultivated friend
concealed a rich sensibility. But her will was mistress of her life;
there was something gallant in the way she kept going. It was as if
she had learned the secret of it-as if the art of life were some
clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew older,
became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days when
the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness
what it was that she was pretending to live for.
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