They
were a part, they were a kind of creation and consequence, of her
husband's very presence. They were not his misdeeds, his turpitudes;
she accused him of nothing-that is but of one thing, which was not a
crime. She knew of no wrong he had done; he was not violent, he was
not cruel: she simply believed he hated her. That was all she
accused him of, and the miserable part of it was precisely that it was
not a crime, for against a crime she might have found redress. He
had discovered that she was so different, that she was not what he had
believed she would prove to be. He had thought at first he could
change her, and she had done her best to be what he would like. But
she was, after all, herself-she couldn't help that; and now there
was no use pretending, wearing a mask or a dress, for he knew her
and had made up his mind. She was not afraid of him; she had no
apprehension he would hurt her; for the ill-will he bore her was not
of that sort. He would if possible never give her a pretext, never put
himself in the wrong. Isabel, scanning the future with dry, fixed
eyes, saw that he would have the better of her there. She would give
him many pretexts, she would often put herself in the wrong.
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