Dorothea was in the reaction of a rebellious anger stronger than any she had felt since her marriage. Instead of tears there came words “what have I done-what
am i-that he should treat me so? He never knows what is in my mind-he never cares. What is the use of anything I do? He wishes he had never married me.” She began to hear herself, and was checked into stillness.
Like one who has lost his way and is weary, she sat and saw as in one glance all the paths of her young hope which she should never find again. And just as clearly in the miserable light she saw her own and her
Husband’s solitude-how they walked apart so that she was obliged to survey him. If he had drawn her towards him, she would never have surveyed-never have said, “is he worth living for” but would have felt
Him simply a part of her own life. Now she said bitterly, “it is his fault, not mine.” In the jar of her whole being, pity was overthrown. Was it her fault that she had believed in him-had believed In his worthiness?-and what, exactly, was he?... in such a crisis as
This, some women begin to hate.