She had known she had too many ideas; she had
more even than he had supposed, many more than she had expressed to
him when he had asked her to marry him. Yes, she had been
hypocritical; she had liked him so much; She had too many ideas for
herself; but that was just what one married for, to share them with
some one else. One couldn't pluck them up by the roots, though of
course one might suppress them, be careful not to utter them. It had
not been this, however, his objecting to her opinions; this had been
nothing. She had no opinions-none that she would not have been eager
to sacrifice in the satisfaction of feeling herself loved for it. What
he had meant had been the whole thing-her character, the way she felt,
the way she judged. This was what she had kept in reserve; this was
what he had not known until he had found himself-with the door
closed behind, as it were-set down face to face with it. She had a
certain way of looking at life which he took as a personal offence.
Heaven knew that now at least it was a very humble, accommodating way!
The strange thing was that she should not have suspected from the
first that his own had been so different.
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