She did not know
whether they deserved her pity, those two whom he pretended to have
loved, but she was ready to pity them, nameless as they were. The one
was dead, the other, at least, had been wise enough to forget him in
time.
Then she thought of what must happen after her marriage, when he had got
her fortune and could take her away to the society in which he had
always lived. There, of course, he would meet women by the score with
whom he was and long had been on terms of social intimacy far closer
than he had reached with her in the few weeks of their acquaintance.
Doubtless, he would spend such time as he could spare from gambling, in
conversation with them. Doubtless, he had many thoughts and memories and
associations in common with them. Doubtless, people would smile a little
and pity the young countess. And Beatrice resented pity and the thought
of it. She would rather pity others.
Evil thoughts crossed her young brain, and she said to herself that she
might perhaps be revenged upon the world for what she was suffering,
for the pain that had already come into her young life, for the wretched
years she anticipated in the future, for her mother's horrible logic
which had forced her into the marriage, above all for San Miniato's
cleverly arranged scene by which the current of her existence had been
changed.
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