He must be
right--yet, she seemed such a pathetic little thing now, broken and
dispirited, humiliated beyond the measure of her lot to bear. The
sleeves of her dress were torn; her parasol was gone, forgotten on the
platform. It was a new costume, he remembered, and she had been so proud
of it that very morning when they had left the house.... He began
wondering if any one they knew had seen the incident. And persistently
there recurred to him her cry:
"All that's left in me would die--"
This gave him a confused and increasing worry. It fitted so well with
the Gloria who lay in the corner--no longer a proud Gloria, nor any
Gloria he had known. He asked himself if it were possible. While he did
not believe she would cease to love him--this, of course, was
unthinkable--it was yet problematical whether Gloria without her
arrogance, her independence, her virginal confidence and courage, would
be the girl of his glory, the radiant woman who was precious and
charming because she was ineffably, triumphantly herself.
He was very drunk even then, so drunk as not to realize his own
drunkenness. When they reached the gray house he went to his own room
and, his mind still wrestling helplessly and sombrely with what he had
done, fell into a deep stupor on his bed.
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