..."
And now, all this November day, all this desolate day, under a sky dirty
and white, Gloria had been thinking that perhaps she had been wrong. To
preserve the integrity of her first gift she had looked no more for
love. When the first flame and ecstasy had grown dim, sunk down,
departed, she had begun preserving--what? It puzzled her that she no
longer knew just what she was preserving--a sentimental memory or some
profound and fundamental concept of honor. She was doubting now whether
there had been any moral issue involved in her way of life--to walk
unworried and unregretful along the gayest of all possible lanes and to
keep her pride by being always herself and doing what it seemed
beautiful that she should do. From the first little boy in an Eton
collar whose "girl" she had been, down to the latest casual man whose
eyes had grown alert and appreciative as they rested upon her, there was
needed only that matchless candor she could throw into a look or clothe
with an inconsequent clause--for she had talked always in broken
clauses--to weave about her immeasurable illusions, immeasurable
distances, immeasurable light. To create souls in men, to create fine
happiness and fine despair she must remain deeply proud--proud to be
inviolate, proud also to be melting, to be passionate and possessed.
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