Her very limbs seemed to ache with longing for the love of a
man who had spurned her, who had resisted her tenderness, remained
cold to her appeals, and had not responded to the glow of passion,
which had caused her to feel and hope that those happy olden days in
Paris were not all dead and forgotten.
How strange it all was! She loved him still. And now that
she looked back upon the last few months of misunderstandings and of
loneliness, she realised that she had never ceased to love him; that
deep down in her heart she had always vaguely felt that his foolish
inanities, his empty laugh, his lazy nonchalance were nothing but a
mask; that the real man, strong, passionate, wilful, was there
still--the man she had loved, whose intensity had fascinated her,
whose personality attracted her, since she always felt that behind his
apparently slow wits there was a certain something, which he kept
hidden from all the world, and most especially from her.
A woman's heart is such a complex problem--the owner thereof
is often most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle.
Did Marguerite Blakeney, "the cleverest woman in Europe,"
really love a fool? Was it love that she had felt for him a year ago
when she married him? Was it love she felt for him now that she
realised that he still loved her, but that he would not become her
slave, her passionate, ardent lover once again? Nay! Marguerite
herself could not have told that.
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