He was at ease; he was even
radiantly happy when he carried cups of bouillon for Maisie
Maidan along the deck. One night, when he was leaning beside
Leonora, over the ship's side, he said suddenly:
"By jove, you're the finest woman in the world. I wish we could be
better friends."
She just turned away without a word and went to her cabin. Still,
she was very much better in health.
And now, I suppose, I must give you Leonora's side of the case. . .
.
That is very difficult. For Leonora, if she preserved an unchanged
front, changed very frequently her point of view. She had been
drilled-- in her tradition, in her upbringing--to keep her mouth
shut. But there were times, she said, when she was so near
yielding to the temptation of speaking that afterwards she
shuddered to think of those times. You must postulate that what
she desired above all things was to keep a shut mouth to the world;
to Edward and to the women that he loved. If she spoke she would
despise herself.
From the moment of his unfaithfulness with La Dolciquita she
never acted the part of wife to Edward. It was not that she
intended to keep herself from him as a principle, for ever.
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