There was a kind of hopeless languor
about her which struck me as pathetic. Yet she had been beautiful, and
might even have been so when I saw her, if it hadn't been for that look.
It was the look of a person who had no interest in things. And the
person who has no interest in things is the person who once had a great
deal of interest in things, who had too passionate an interest. The
revulsion is always terrible. Too much romance is deadly. It is as
false a stimulant as opium or alcohol, and leaves a corresponding mark.
Well, I heard her history. She was married at fifteen--ran away to be
married; and in spite of the fact that a railway accident nearly took her
husband from her on the night of her marriage--one would have thought
that would make a strong bond--she was soon alive to the attentions that
are given a pretty and--considerate woman. At a ball at Naples, her
husband, having in vain tried to induce her to go home, picked her up
under his arm and carried her out of the ballroom.
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