The girl, at least, regarded him as firmly anchored to
his Leonora. She had not the slightest inkling of any infidelities.
He had always spoken to her of his wife in terms of reverence and
deep affection. He had given her the idea that he regarded
Leonora as absolutely impeccable and as absolutely satisfying.
Their union had appeared to her to be one of those blessed things
that are spoken of and contemplated with reverence by her church.
So that, when he spoke of her as being the person he cared most
for in the world, she naturally thought that he meant to except
Leonora and she was just glad. It was like a father saying that he
approved of a marriageable daughter . . . And Edward, when he
realized what he was doing, curbed his tongue at once. She was
just glad and she went on being just glad.
I suppose that that was the most monstrously wicked thing that
Edward Ashburnham ever did in his life. And yet I am so near to
all these people that I cannot think any of them wicked. It is
impossible of me to think of Edward Ashburnham as anything but
straight, upright and honourable. That, I mean, is, in spite of
everything, my permanent view of him. I try at times by dwelling
on some of the things that he did to push that image of him away,
as you might try to push aside a large pendulum.
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