It was her deep distrust of her husband-this
was what darkened the world. That is a sentiment easily indicated, but
not so easily explained, and so composite in its character that much
time and still more suffering had been needed to bring it to its
actual perfection. Suffering, with Isabel, was an active condition; it
was not a chill, a stupor, a despair; it was a passion of thought,
of speculation, of response to every pressure. She flattered herself
that she had kept her failing faith to herself, however-that no one
suspected it but Osmond. Oh, he knew it, and there were times when she
thought he enjoyed it. It had come gradually-it was not till the first
year of their life together, so admirably intimate at first, had
closed that she had taken the alarm. Then the shadows had begun to
gather; it was as if Osmond deliberately, almost malignantly, had
put the lights out one by one. The dusk at first was vague and thin,
and she could still see her way in it. But it steadily deepened, and
if now and again it had occasionally lifted there were certain corners
of her prospect that were impenetrably black. These shadows were not
an emanation from her own mind: she was very sure of that; she had
done her best to be just and temperate, to see only the truth.
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