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- Джордж Элиот
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- Стр. 296/572
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Then
she
went
towards
him
,
and
might
have
represented
a
heaven
-
sent
angel
coming
with
a
promise
that
the
short
hours
remaining
should
yet
be
filled
with
that
faithful
love
which
clings
the
closer
to
a
comprehended
grief
.
His
glance
in
reply
to
hers
was
so
chill
that
she
felt
her
timidity
increased
;
yet
she
turned
and
passed
her
hand
through
his
arm
.
Mr
.
Casaubon
kept
his
hands
behind
him
and
allowed
her
pliant
arm
to
cling
with
difficulty
against
his
rigid
arm
.
There
was
something
horrible
to
Dorothea
in
the
sensation
which
this
unresponsive
hardness
inflicted
on
her
.
That
is
a
strong
word
,
but
not
too
strong
:
it
is
in
these
acts
called
trivialities
that
the
seeds
of
joy
are
forever
wasted
,
until
men
and
women
look
round
with
haggard
faces
at
the
devastation
their
own
waste
has
made
,
and
say
,
the
earth
bears
no
harvest
of
sweetness
—
calling
their
denial
knowledge
.
You
may
ask
why
,
in
the
name
of
manliness
,
Mr
.
Casaubon
should
have
behaved
in
that
way
.
Consider
that
his
was
a
mind
which
shrank
from
pity
:
have
you
ever
watched
in
such
a
mind
the
effect
of
a
suspicion
that
what
is
pressing
it
as
a
grief
may
be
really
a
source
of
contentment
,
either
actual
or
future
,
to
the
being
who
already
offends
by
pitying
?
Besides
,
he
knew
little
of
Dorothea
’
s
sensations
,
and
had
not
reflected
that
on
such
an
occasion
as
the
present
they
were
comparable
in
strength
to
his
own
sensibilities
about
Carp
’
s
criticisms
.
Dorothea
did
not
withdraw
her
arm
,
but
she
could
not
venture
to
speak
.
Mr
.
Casaubon
did
not
say
,
"
I
wish
to
be
alone
,
"
but
he
directed
his
steps
in
silence
towards
the
house
,
and
as
they
entered
by
the
glass
door
on
this
eastern
side
,
Dorothea
withdrew
her
arm
and
lingered
on
the
matting
,
that
she
might
leave
her
husband
quite
free
.
He
entered
the
library
and
shut
himself
in
,
alone
with
his
sorrow
.
She
went
up
to
her
boudoir
.
The
open
bow
-
window
let
in
the
serene
glory
of
the
afternoon
lying
in
the
avenue
,
where
the
lime
-
trees
east
long
shadows
.
But
Dorothea
knew
nothing
of
the
scene
.
She
threw
herself
on
a
chair
,
not
heeding
that
she
was
in
the
dazzling
sun
-
rays
:
if
there
were
discomfort
in
that
,
how
could
she
tell
that
it
was
not
part
of
her
inward
misery
?
She
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
him
—
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
?
—
She
was
able
enough
to
estimate
him
—
she
who
waited
on
his
glances
with
trembling
,
and
shut
her
best
soul
in
prison
,
paying
it
only
hidden
visits
,
that
she
might
be
petty
enough
to
please
him
.
In
such
a
crisis
as
this
,
some
women
begin
to
hate
.
