Thus, on this evening she was seated by
the river, watching the sunset and brooding over her grief. Life, as it
seemed to her, was still incomprehensible. Her view of it was blurred
as by some hideous phantom. A series of books which she had read had
served to give her greater freedom of thought. As she believed, her
conduct was not only natural but almost worthy of praise. She had
brought harm to no one thereby, only providing herself and another with
sensual enjoyment. Without such enjoyment there would be no youth, and
life itself would be barren and desolate as a leafless tree in autumn.
The thought that her union with a man had not been sanctioned by the
church seemed to her ridiculous. By the free mind of a man such claims
had long been swept aside. She ought really to find joy in this new
life, just as a flower on some bright morning rejoices at the touch of
the pollen borne to it on the breeze. Yet she felt unutterably
degraded, and baser than the basest.
All such grand, noble ideas and eternal verities melted like wax at the
thought of her day of infamy that was at hand.
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